Phronsie, here is a cunning little fellow," he added, artfully
trying to lead her to one a few degrees better, he fondly hoped. But
Phronsie already had her arms up by her particular donkey's neck, and
her cheek laid against his nose, and she was telling him that he was
her donkey, for she thought Grandpapa would say "Yes." So what else
could he do, pray tell, but say "Yes"? And she mounted the steps, and
was seated, her little brown gown pulled out straight, and the saddle
girth tightened, and all the other delightful and important details
attended to, and then the reins were put in her overjoyed hands.
She never knew how it was all done, seeing nothing, hearing nothing of
the confusion and chatter, of the mounting of the others, her gaze
fixed on the long ears before her, and only conscious that her very own
donkey was really there, and that she was on his back. And it was not
until they started and the guide who held her bridle loped off into an
easy pace, by the animal's head, that she aroused from her dream of
bliss as a sudden thought struck her. "What is my donkey's name?" she
asked softly.
The man loped on, not hearing, and he wouldn't have understood had he
heard.
"I don't believe he has any name," said old Mr. King just behind.
"Phronsie, is your saddle all right? Do you like it, child?" all in one
breath.
"I like it very much," answered Phronsie, trying to turn around.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280