Mr Jones, of the Manor Farm, had locked the hen-houses for the night, but was too drunk to remember to shut the pop-holes.
Call me Ishmael.
“Where’s Papa going with that ax?” said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.
It was seven o’clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day’s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips.
The first place that I can clearly remember was a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it.
The primroses were over. Towards the edge of the wood, where the ground became open and sloped down to an old fence and a bramble ditch beyond, only a few fading patches of pale yellow still showed among the dog’s mercury and oak-tree roots. On the other side of the fences, the upper part of the field was full of rabbit holes.
Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tide-water dog, strong of muscle and with warm, long hair, from Puget Sound to San Diego.
Once upon a time there were four little Rabbits, and their names were - Flopsy, Mopsy, Cotton-tail and Peter.
So the middle of my story comes in the winter of 1996. By then, we’d long since dwindled to the family that old home movie fore-shadowed - me, my mother, and, unseen but evident behind the camera, my father. In 1996, ten years had passed since I’d last seen my brother, seventeen since my sister disappeared.
Down in the valley there were three farms. The owners of these farms had done well. They were rich men. They were also nasty men. All three of them were about as nasty and mean as any men you could meet. Their names were Farmer Boggis, Farmer Bunce and Farmer Bean.
Twilight over meadow and water, the eve-star shining above the hill, and Old Nog the heron crying kra-a-ark! as his slow dark wings carried him down to the estuary.
I could see that Mr Handshaw didn’t believe a word I was saying. He looked down at his cow and his mouth tightened into a stubborn line.
“What’s that noise” said Mrs Hogget, sticking her comfortable round red face out of the kitchen window.
My suffering left me sad and gloomy. Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly brought me back to life.
The Mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.
In the old school they now use for the Village Hall, below the clock that has always stood at one minute past ten, hangs a small dusty painting of a horse.
When I left my office that beautiful spring day, I had no idea what was in store for me. To begin with, everything was too perfect for anything unusual to happen. It was one of those days when a man feels good, feels like speaking to his neighbor, is glad to live in a country like ours, and proud of his government. You know what I mean, one of those days where everything is right and nothing is wrong. I was walking along whistling when I heard the dogfight.
Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin.
Only three people were left under the red and white awning of the grease joint: Grady, me, and the fry cook. Grady and I sat at a battered wooden table, each facing a burger on a dented tin plate. The cook was behind the counter, scraping his griddle with the edge of a spatula. He had turned off the fryer some time ago, but the odor of grease lingered.
When Mrs Frederick C. Little’s second son arrived, everybody noticed that he was not much bigger than a mouse.
Quiz Playlist
Details
Clickable: Select answers by clicking on text or image buttons
In order to create a playlist on Sporcle, you need to verify the email address you used during registration. Go to your Sporcle Settings to finish the process.
Comments