We were as little
ones unable to prop their eyelids open and yet quarreling with bed.
We were surfeited, but not satisfied. We sat there and pouted
because there wasn't any more, and yet we couldn't but yawn at the
act before us. We were mad at ourselves, and mad at everybody else.
We clambered down the rattling bedslats seats, sour and sullen. We
didn't want to look at the animals; we didn't want to do this, and
we didn't want to do that. We whined and snarled, and wriggled and
shook ourselves with temper, and we got a good hard slap, side of
the head, right before everybody, and then we yelled as if we were
being killed alive.
"Now, mister, if I ever take you any place again, you'll know it.
I'd be ashamed of myself if I was you. Hush up! Hush up, I tell
you. Now you mark. You're never going to the show again. Do
you hear me? Never! I mean it. You're never going again."
But at eventide there was light. After supper, after a little rest
and a good deal of food, while chopping the kindling for morning
(it's wonderful how useful employ tends to induce a cheerful view
of life) out of her dazzling treasure-heap of jewels, Memory took
up, one after another, a glowing recollection and viewed it with
delight. The evening performance, the one all lighted up with
bunches and bunches of lights, was a-preparing, and in the gentle
breeze the far-off music waved as it had been a flag.
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