Дні мрій
A Departure
ButasIcameupI’msureIfeltPotiphar!”Anddownhedivedagain.
Potipharwasafinelymodelledbullwithasuedeskin,roughandcomfortableandwarminbed.Hewasmyownspecialjoyandpride,andIthrilledwithhonestemotionwhenPotipharemergedtolightoncemore,stout-neckedandstalwartasever.
“That’llhavetodo,”saidCharlotte,gettingup.“Wedursn’ttakeanymore,’coswe’llbefoundoutifwedo.Maketheboxallright,andbring’emalong.”
Haroldrammeddownthewadsofpaperandtwistsofstrawhehaddisturbed,replacedthelidsquarelyandinnocently,andpickeduphissmallsalvage;andwesneakedoffforthewindowmostgenerallyinuseforprison-breakingsandnocturnalescapades.Afewsecondslaterandwewerehurryingsilentlyinsinglefilealongthedarkedgeofthelawn.
Oh,theriot,theclamour,thecrowdingchorus,ofallsilentthingsthatspokebyscentandcolourandbuddingthrustandfoison,thatmoonlitnightofJune!Underthelaurel-shadeallwasstillghostlyenough,brigand-haunted,crackling,whisperingofnightandallitspossibilitiesofterror.Buttheopengarden,whenoncewewereinit—howitturnedagladnewfacetowelcomeus,gladasofoldwhenthesunlightrakedandsearchedit,newwiththeunfamiliarnight-aspectthatyetwelcomedusasgueststoahallwherethehornsblewuptoanew,strangebanquet!Wasthisthesamegrass,couldthesebethesamefamiliarflower-beds,alleys,clumpsofverdure,patchesofsward?Atleastthisfullwhitelightthatwasfloodingthemwasnew,andaccountedforall.
