My father used to go
and see them, and report their progress to my mother on his return.
"They can see to-day."
"They have curled themselves up. Every one of them. Six beautiful little
balls; as round as crab-apples and as safe as burrs!"
I tried to curl myself up, but I could only get my coat a little way
over my nose. I cried with vexation. But one should not lose heart too
easily. With patience and perseverance most things can be brought about,
and I could soon both see and curl myself into a ball. It was about this
time that my father hurried home one day, tossing the leaves at least
three inches over his head as he bustled along.
"What in the hedge do you think has happened to the six?" said he.
"Oh, don't tell me!" cried my mother; "I am so nervous." (Which she was,
and rather foolish as well, which used to irritate my father, who was
hasty tempered, as I am myself.)
"They've been taken by gipsies and flitted," said he.
"What do you mean by _flitted_?" inquired my mother.
"A string is tied round a hind-leg of each, and they are tethered in the
grass behind the tent, just as the donkey is tethered. So they will
remain till they grow fat, and then they will be cooked.
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