A possibility.
Another.
one day—just as it might be to day, you know—in drops an old friend—bittern—just as it might be me. 'Dear me,' says the bittern—just as I might say to you—'why don't you try dynamite—,'" and so on, and so on; while number one fades off towards the pail. It is a sad world, wherein even herons' friendship is false.
Roll, bowl, or pitch.
Winter sport.
I rather dread the winter for this invalid. Church may pull him round now with much oil, but the winter will assuredly call for crutches and a foot sling. Or will they swathe his legs in great folds of straw and matting as they do a tropical plant or a barnstormer brigand, leaving him to stand the winter through in a warm corner, and watch his merry cage-mates at their winter sport? I should like to see—to see their winter sport—their winter sport—see their winter sport. Yes. . . . . . Snow-balls, no doubt, and sliding on the pond. . . . . . on the pond. . . . . . But it's warm now. Yes. . . . . . The present sport is a sort of cocoanut-shy business, with trussed poultry for prizes. Is it really the flamingoes, standing on one leg apiece? Flamingoes—red wings—flaming goes about the cage. That's a joke; funny. . . . . . Roll, bowl, or pitch. . . . . . See that rat? He's going to climb one of the sticks. Rats always expect to find something to eat—top of a stick. Part of their system. Poultry at top opens out and unfolds another stick—leg. Why, it's Sam. That's funny! Rat bolts—he'd better. Not quite sure I shouldn't bolt myself if Sam were after me with that beak. And eyes, too; seem bigger than usual; and closer. Sam's
