He followed her with enchanted feet. He
was now moving as in an Arabian Night's dream.
In the front room was a sofa--No, a divan, and on the divan the skin
of a Polar bear sprawling. Rickman and Poppy sat on the top of the
bear. Such a disreputable, out-of-elbow, cosmopolitan bear! His little
eye-holes were screwed up in a wicked wink, a wink that repudiated any
connection with his native waters of the Pole.
The house was very still. Behind his yellow gauze curtain the canary
stirred in his sleep. "Swe-eet," he murmured plaintively in his dream.
"Swe-eet, dicky!" echoed Poppy. Then because she had nothing to say
she began to sing. She sang the song of Simpson the tenor, Simpson the
master of tears.
"'Twas on the night our little byby died,
And Bill, 'e comes, and, 'Sal,' 'e sez,'look ere,
I've signed a pledge,'ser 'e, 'agains the beer.
'D'ye see?'
Sez 'e.
'And wot I 'ope ter syve
Will tittervyte 'is bloomin' little gryve.'
Then--Well--yo' should 'ave 'eard us 'ow we cried--
Like bloomin' kids--the--night--the byby--died.
"That song," said Poppy, "doesn't exactly suit my style of beauty. You
should have heard Simpey sing it. _That_ 'd 'ave given you something to
'owl for."
For Rickman looked depressed.
The sound of Poppy's song waked the canary; he fluttered down from his
perch and stretched his wings, trailing them on the floor of his cage
to brush the sleep out of them.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73