Біла пташка
The Fight For Timothy
Theunmanlychucklealwayscame,Ifound,whenthepoorladydroppedherbabe,butthewholethingentrancedhim;hetriedtokeephisexcitementdownbytakinghugedraughtsofwater;heforgotallhisnicetiesofconduct;hesatinholyrapturewiththetoybetweenhispaws,tookittobedwithhim,ateitinthenight,andsearchedforitsolonginglynextdaythatIhadtogooutandbuyhimthemanwiththescythe.Afterthatwehadeverythingofnote,thebootblackboy,thetoperwithbottle,thewoollyrabbitthatsqueakswhenyouholditinyourmouth;theyallvanishedasinexplicablyasthelady,butIdarednottellhimmysuspicions,forhesuspectedalsoandhisgentleheartwouldhavemournedhadIconfirmedhisfears.
ThedameinthetempleoftoyswhichwefrequentthinksIwantthemforalittleboyandcallshim“theprecious”and“thelamb,”thewhilePorthosisstandinggravelybymyside.Sheisamotherlysoul,butover-talkative.
“Andhowisthedearlambto-day?”shebegins,beaming.
“Well,ma’am,well,”Isay,keepingtightgripofhiscollar.
“Thisblightyweatherisnotaffectinghisdarlingappetite?”
“No,ma’am,notatall.”(Shewouldbeconsiderablysurprisedifinformedthathedinedto-dayonasheepshead,aloaf,andthreecabbages,andissuspectedofalegofmutton.)
“Ihopeheloveshistoys?”
“Hecarriesthemaboutwithhimeverywhere,ma’am.”(Hastheoneweboughtyesterdaywithhimnow,thoughyoumightnotthinkittolookathim.)
“Whatdoyousaytoaboxoftoolsthistime?”
“Ithinknot,ma’am.
