Heaven prevent Her coming, now! I've reason to fear
the lash of the whip, and the magic words which mean exile: "Toby!
that's stupid! I forbid you to roast yourself. You'll have sore eyes,
and catch cold when you go out." That's what She says, while I regard
her with a stupid look of utter devotion. But She's never duped by it. I
hear noises upstairs, her step coming and going ... I wonder is her
vagabond fancy wearied at last? This morning She whistled to me and in
my haste to obey her, I rolled to the bottom of the stairs--being low
and thick-set, with short legs, no nose, and almost no tail to balance
me. Well, we set off. The last apples were rocking to-and-fro on swaying
branches. My happy voice, a joyful shout from her now and then, the vain
crowing of the cocks, the creaking of wagons on the road--all these
sounds floated on a bluish, cottony, suffocating fog. She took me far,
and many marvelous things happened on our way. We met terrible giant
dogs. My proud bearing seemed to exasperate them, but I kept them back
with a single look (besides, a closed iron gate rendered them
powerless). I chased a rabbit into the thicket, though She cried loudly:
"I forbid you to touch the little animal!" .
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