I pleased–there were many he knew that would give their ears to go.
“Have you ever been yourself, Bruno?”
“They invited me once, last week,” Bruno said, very gravely.
“It was to wash up the soup-plates–no, the cheese-plates I mean that
was grand enough. And I waited at table. And I didn’t hardly make
only one mistake.”
“What was it?” I said. “You needn’t mind telling me.”
“Only bringing scissors to cut the beef with,” Bruno said carelessly.
“But the grandest thing of all was, I fetched the King a glass of cider!”
“That was grand!” I said, biting my lip to keep myself from laughing.
“Wasn’t it?” said Bruno, very earnestly. “Oo know it isn’t every one
that’s had such an honour as that!”
This set me thinking of the various queer things we call “an honour” in
this world, but which, after all, haven’t a bit more honour in them
than what Bruno enjoyed, when he took the King a glass of cider.
I don’t know how long I might not have dreamed on in this way, if Bruno
hadn’t suddenly roused me. “Oh, come here quick!” he cried, in a state
of the wildest excitement. “Catch hold of his other horn!
I ca’n’t hold him more than a minute!”
He was struggling desperately with a great snail, clinging to one of
its horns, and nearly breaking his poor little back in his efforts to
drag it over a blade of grass.
I saw we should have no more gardening if I let this sort of thing go
on, so I quietly took the snail away, and put it on a bank where he
couldn’t reach it. “We’ll hunt it afterwards, Bruno,” I said,
“if you really want to catch it.
But what’s the use of it when you’ve got it?” “What’s the use of a fox
when oo’ve got it?” said Bruno. “I know oo big things hunt foxes.”
I tried to think of some good reason why “big things” should hunt
foxes, and he should not hunt snails, but none came into my head: so I
said at last, “Well, I suppose one’s as good as the other.
I’ll go snail-hunting myself some day.”
“I should think oo wouldn’t be so silly,” said Bruno,
“as to go snail-hunting by oor-self. Why, oo’d never get the snail along,
if oo hadn’t somebody to hold on to his other horn!”
“Of course I sha’n’t go alone,” I said, quite gravely. “By the way, is
that the best kind to hunt, or do you recommend the ones without shells?”
“Oh, no, we never hunt the ones without shells,” Bruno said, with a
little shudder at the thought of it. “They’re always so cross about it;
and then, if oo tumbles over them, they’re ever so sticky!”
By this time we had nearly finished the garden. I had fetched some
violets, and Bruno was just helping me to put in the last, when he
suddenly stopped and said “I’m tired.”
“Rest then,” I said: “I can go on without you, quite well.”
Bruno needed no second invitation: he at once began arranging the dead
mouse as a kind of sofa. “And I’ll sing oo a little song,” he said, as
he rolled it about.
“Do,” said I: “I like songs very much.”
“Which song will oo choose?” Bruno said, as he dragged the mouse into a
place where he could get a good view of me. “‘Ting, ting, ting’ is the
nicest.”
There was no resisting such a strong hint as this: however,
I pretended to think about it for a moment, and then said “Well, I like
‘Ting, ting, ting,’ best of all.”
[Image…Bruno’s revenge]
“That shows oo’re a good judge of music,” Bruno said, with a pleased look.
“How many hare-bells would oo like?” And he put his thumb into his mouth
to help me to consider.
As there was only one cluster of hare-bells within easy reach, I said
very gravely that I thought one would do this time, and I picked
it and gave it to him. Bruno ran his hand once or twice up and down
the flowers, like a musician trying an instrument, producing a most