I really hesitate to approach the subject of my one source of
discontent. It seems strange that there should be any crook in a lot so
smooth as ours. Plenty to eat and drink, handsome coats, no
encumbrances, and a temperament naturally inclined--at least, in my
case--towards taking life easy. And yet, as I lay stretched full-length
down one of my master's knees the other night, before a delicious fire,
and after such a saucerful of creamy tea which he could not drink
himself--I kept waking up with uncomfortable starts, fancying I saw on
the edge of the fender--but I will tell the matter in proper order.
I turned round to get my back to it, but I thought of it all the same;
and as every hair of my moustaches twitched, with the vexation of my
thoughts, I observed that my master was pulling and biting at his, and
glaring at the fire as if _he_ expected to see--however, I do not
trouble myself about the crumples in _his_ rose-leaves. He is big enough
to take care of himself. My own grievance I will state plainly and at
once. It may be a relief to my mind, which I sometimes fear will be
unhinged by dwelling on the thought of--but to begin.
It will easily be understood that after my arrival at my new home, I
waited anxiously for the appearance of the mouse; but it will hardly be
credited by any one who knows me, or who knew my grandmother, that I saw
it and _let it escape me_.
Pages:
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118