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He could do nothing against them, and contented himself with opening his eyes and his mouth and giving vent to a "Ba-a-a!" Then his red-haired wife came out and hailed him in. From the moment when the gray morning broke there was audible a peculiar note in the buzzing of the "Ark," a hoarse excitement, which thrust all care aside.
You know how very curious Peter is. It seemed to him that he just couldn't go back to the dear Old Briar-patch on the Green Meadows until he had seen everything to be seen in the Old Pasture. So he couldn't make up his mind to go back home, but stayed and stayed, hoping each day that the old gray Rabbit would get tired of hunting for him, and would let him alone.
And then he would call in uncle Nate Peedick and they would bend their two gray bald heads together and talk about "specifications" and "elevations" and "ground plans" and "suller plans" till my head seemed to turn and my brain seemed most as soft as theirn.
Nor, indeed, did her husband's words save me the suspicion that my eyes deceived me when anon I was presented to a very pale, small lady whose hair was rather white than gray. And the "little daughter!"
"Sometimes," she finished, "I think that your father and my mother must have loved each other first and that something kept them from marrying. I know that they must have talked it over lately, for there seems to be a curious understanding between them now, and the sweetest peace has come to both of them." She paused, and Gray, paralyzed with wonder, still made no answer.
Also, there were copies of paintings and old wood engravings from the magazines of a generation and more before. Saxon ran the pages with familiar fingers and stopped at the picture she was seeking. Between bold headlands of rock and under a gray cloud-blown sky, a dozen boats, long and lean and dark, beaked like monstrous birds, were landing on a foam-whitened beach of sand.
A meager and sorry enough array words had never been for her the swift, docile servitors that most people found them. But the thin gray sheet in her fingers started out gallantly enough "Beloved." Beloved! She leaned far forward, dropping it with deft precision into the glowing pocket of embers. What next?
This compliment met with a handsome requital; for Johnson, soon after, having occasion to speak of Beattie, in his Life of Gray, called him a poet, a philosopher, and a good man.
He half shut them to his body and dived head foremost on a perilous slant. Then, just as he must be dashed to pieces on the gray rock of the ledge on which I sat, he spread them wide, caught the air that sang through the wide-spread primaries with a clear, deep-toned note, and rose again; and in his "peent, peent" was a quaint note of self-satisfaction and self-praise.
"Children do get the greatest amount of fun out of the smallest things," she thought. "What can they be doing?" When quite near the thicket, however, her slow steps quickened into a run. Her sharp eyes discovered hanging from one of the trees over the heads of the children one of the large wasps' nests which seem to be made of gray paper.
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