Like the other animals. They all do
that.
Tuesday--Wednesday--Thursday--and today: all without seeing him. It is
a long time to be alone; still, it is better to be alone than unwelcome.
FRIDAY--I HAD to have company--I was made for it, I think--so I made
friends with the animals. They are just charming, and they have the
kindest disposition and the politest ways; they never look sour, they
never let you feel that you are intruding, they smile at you and wag
their tail, if they've got one, and they are always ready for a romp or
an excursion or anything you want to propose. I think they are perfect
gentlemen. All these days we have had such good times, and it hasn't
been lonesome for me, ever.
Lonesome! No, I should say not. Why, there's always a swarm of them
around--sometimes as much as four or five acres--you can't count them;
and when you stand on a rock in the midst and look out over the furry
expanse it is so mottled and splashed and gay with color and frisking
sheen and sun-flash, and so rippled with stripes, that you might think
it was a lake, only you know it isn't; and there's storms of sociable
birds, and hurricanes of whirring wings; and when the sun strikes all
that feathery commotion, you have a blazing up of all the colors you can
think of, enough to put your eyes out.
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