"Oh, no, Phronsie," expostulated old Mr. King, when this pleasing
little performance had been indulged in for a half a dozen times. "You
can't pat them all; goodness me, child, the woods are full of them," he
brought up in dismay.
"Do they live in the woods?" asked Phronsie, in astonishment.
"I mean, the place--this whole valley of Chamonix is full of donkeys,"
said Grandpapa, "so you see, child, it's next to impossible to pat all
their noses."
"I hope I'm going to have that dear, sweet little one," cried Phronsie,
giving up all her mind, since the soft noses couldn't be patted, to
happy thoughts of to-morrow's bliss. "See, Grandpapa," she pulled his
hand gently, "to ride up the mountain on."
"Well, you'll have a good one, that is, as good as can be obtained,"
said the old gentleman; "but as for any particular one, why, they're
all alike to me as two peas, Phronsie."
But Phronsie had her own ideas on the subject, and though on every
other occasion agreeing with Grandpapa, she saw good and sufficient
reason why every donkey should be entirely different from every other
donkey. And when, on the next morning, their procession of donkeys
filed solemnly into the hotel yard, she screamed out, "Oh, Grandpapa,
here he is, the very one I wanted! Oh, may I have him? Put me up, do!"
"He's the worst one of the whole lot," groaned Grandpapa, his eye
running over the file, "I know by the way he puts his vicious old feet
down.
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