Біла пташка
William Paterson
“Iwantedtoknowyou,”herepliedslowly,“Iwantedtobelikeyou.”
“Andnowyouknowme,”Isaid,“doyouwanttobelikemestill?Iamacuriouspersontoattachoneselfto,Paterson;don’tyouseethatevenDavidoftensmilesatmewhenhethinksheisunobserved.Iworkveryhardtoretainthatlittleboy’slove;butIshalllosehimsoon;evennowIamnotwhatIwastohim;inayearortwoatlongest,Paterson,Davidwillgrowoutofme.”
Thepoorfellowshotouthishandtome,but“No,”saidI,“youhavefoundmeout.Everybodyfindsmeoutexceptmydog,andthatiswhythelossofhimmakessuchadifferencetome.Shallwego,Paterson?”
Hewouldnotcomewithme,andIlefthimontheseat;whenIwasfarawayIlookedback,andhewasstillsittingthereforlornly.
ForlongIcouldnotclosemyearsthatnight:Ilaylistening,Iknewnotwhatfor.Ascarewasonmethatmademedislikethedark,andIswitchedonthelightandsleptatlast.Iwasrousedbyagreatto-dointheearlymorning,servantsknockingexcitedly,andmydooropened,andthedearPorthosIhadmournedsolongtorein.Theyhadheardhisbark,butwhencehecamenooneknew.
Hewasinexcellentcondition,andafterhehadleapeduponmefromallpointsIflunghimonthefloorbyatrickIknow,andlaydownbesidehim,whileheputhisprotectingarmroundmeandlookedatmewiththeoldadoringeyes.
ButweneversawPatersonagain.Youmaythinkasyouchoose.
