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The Fight For Timothy

           

           ButnomoreaboutTimothy.Graduallythisvexedme.IfeltwhataforlornlittlechapTimothywas,withnoonetosayawordforhim,andIbecamehischampionandhintedsomethingaboutteething,butwithdrewitwhenitseemedtoosurprising,andtriedtogetontosaferground,suchasbibsandgeneralintelligence,butthepainterfellowwassowillingtoletmehavemysay,andknewsomuchmoreaboutbabiesthanisfittingformentoknow,thatIpaledbeforehimandwonderedwhythedeucehewaslisteningtomesoattentively.

           Youmayrememberastoryhehadtoldmeaboutsomeanonymousfriend.“Hislatest,”saidhenow,“istosendDavidarocking-horse!”

           ImustsayIcouldseenoreasonforhismirth.“Pictureit,”saidhe,“arocking-horseforachildnotthreemonthsold!”

           Iwasabouttosayfiercely:“Thestirrupsareadjustable,”butthoughtitbesttolaughwithhim.ButIwaspainedtohearthatMaryhadlaughed,thoughheavenknowsIhaveoftenlaughedather.

           “Butwomenareodd,”hesaidunexpectedly,andexplained.ItappearsthatinthemiddleofhermerrimentMaryhadbecomegraveandsaidtohimquitehaughtily,“Iseenothingtolaughat.”Thenshehadkissedthehorsesolemnlyonthenoseandsaid,“Iwishhewasheretoseemedoit.”TherearemomentswhenonecannothelpfeelingadrawingtoMary.

           Butmomentsonly,forthenextthinghesaidputherinaparticularlyodiouslight.HeinformedmethatshehadsworntohuntMr.Anondown.

           “Shewon’tsucceed,”Isaid,sneeringbutnervous.

           “Thenitwillbeherfirstfailure,”saidhe.

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Roboto Lora
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