Біла пташка
William Paterson
Imaywalkontheothersideunknowntothem,buttheyhavenoneedofme,foratsuchtimesnothingwouldinducePorthostodepartfromthecareofDavid.Ifanyoneaddressesthemhegrowlssoftlyandshowstheteeththatcrunchbonesasiftheywerebiscuits.ThusamicablythetwopassontoMary’shouse,wherePorthosbarkshisknock-and-ringbarktillthedoorisopened.SometimeshegoesinwithDavid,butonthisoccasionhesaidgood-byeonthestep.Nothingremarkableinthis,buthedidnotreturntome,notthatdaynornextdaynorinweeksandmonths.Iwasamandistraught;andDavidworehisknucklesinhiseyes.Conceiveit,wehadlostourdearPorthos—atleast—well—somethingdisquietinghappened.Idon’tquiteknowwhattothinkofitevennow.IknowwhatDavidthinks.However,youshallthinkasyouchoose.
MyfirsthopewasthatPorthoshadstrolledtotheGardensandgotlockedinforthenight,andalmostassoonasLock-outwasoverIwastheretomakeinquiries.ButtherewasnonewsofPorthos,thoughIlearnedthatsomeonewasbelievedtohavespentthenightintheGardens,ayounggentlemanwhowalkedouthastilythemomentthegateswereopened.Hehadsaidnothing,however,ofhavingseenadog.Ifearedanaccidentnow,forIknewnothiefcouldstealhim,yetevenanaccidentseemedincredible,hewasalwayssocautiousatcrossings;alsotherecouldnotpossiblyhavebeenanaccidenttoPorthoswithouttherebeinganaccidenttosomethingelse.
Davidinthemiddleofhisgameswouldsuddenlyrememberthegreatblankandstepasidetocry.
