In the dull, cheerless garden, overlooked by so many windows that
were ready to open with a message not to do this or that, or a
reminder that medicines were due, he found little attraction. The
few fruit-trees that it contained were set jealously apart from
his plucking, as though they were rare specimens of their kind
blooming in an arid waste; it would probably have been difficult
to find a market-gardener who would have offered ten shillings for
their entire yearly produce. In a forgotten corner, however,
almost hidden behind a dismal shrubbery, was a disused tool-shed
of respectable proportions, and within its walls Conradin found a
haven, something that took on the varying aspects of a playroom
and a cathedral. He had peopled it with a legion of familiar
phantoms, evoked partly from fragments of history and partly from
his own brain, but it also boasted two inmates of flesh and blood.
In one corner lived a ragged-plumaged Houdan hen, on which the boy
lavished an affection that had scarcely another outlet. Further
back in the gloom stood a large hutch, divided into two
compartments, one of which was fronted with close iron bars. This
was the abode of a large polecat-ferret, which a friendly butcher-
boy had once smuggled, cage and all, into its present quarters, in
exchange for a long-secreted hoard of small silver.
Pages:
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94