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He was half-way up when, glancing down, he saw a shadow moving across the snow. Once more Whitefoot's heart seemed to jump right up in his throat. That shadow was the shadow of some one flying. There couldn't be the least bit of doubt about it. Whitefoot flattened himself against the side of the tree and peeked around it.
First printed in the Literary Magazine for 1756. Christian Morals, first printed in 1756. Life of sir Thomas Browne, prefixed to the Antiquities of Norwich. Whitefoot's character of sir Thomas Browne, in a marginal note. Life of sir Thomas Browne. Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses. Wood. Life of sir Thomas Browne. Life of sir Thomas Browne. Biographia Britannica.
She was gone what seemed a long time to Whitefoot, anxiously waiting outside. You see, Mrs. Whitefoot is a very thorough small person, and she was examining the inside of that house from top to bottom. At last she appeared at the doorway. "Don't you think this is a splendid house?" asked Whitefoot rather timidly. "It is very good of its kind," replied Mrs. Whitefoot. Whitefoot's heart sank.
You will have to sleep in your old home because there isn't room in here for both of us and the babies too." Whitefoot's heart sank. He had thought that he was to stay and that everything would be just as it had been before. "Can't I come over here any more?" he asked rather timidly. "What a foolish question!" cried little Mrs. Whitefoot. "Of course you can.
The little inhabitants of John Whitefoot's castle were mere skeletons. Most of their parents were dead, and a mournful silence pervaded the town, save when the bells of the chapels called to prayer, or the yells of the mob announced that the lower orders were breaking into houses in search of food. John could stand the sight of the faces of the suffering children no longer.
"Whooo-hoo-hoo, whooo-hoo!" came that terrible sound again, and Whitefoot shook until his little teeth rattled. At least, that is the way it seemed to him. It was the voice of Hooty the Owl, and Whitefoot knew that Hooty was sitting on the top of that very stub. He was, so to speak, on the roof of Whitefoot's house.
Whitefoot held his breath, he was so afraid that those eyes would vanish. Finally he rather timidly jumped down from the log and started toward those two soft eyes. They vanished. Whitefoot's heart sank. He was tempted to rush forward, but he didn't. He sat still. There was a slight rustle off to the right.
I'm going to bring home my spelling-book every night; and I can't carry it very well on Whitefoot's back, without it's in a satchel." Mrs. Curtis left the room, and presently returned with a small leather bag, to which a strap was attached. "Will this do?" she asked. "Oh, yes, mamma! that is just what I wanted." After this, mamma, and papa, and Mrs.
As soon as he heard it, he would scamper in the direction of it, and then pause to drum again. Sometimes the reply would be very near, then again it would be so far away that a great fear would fill Whitefoot's heart that the stranger was running away. Joyous all the winds that blow To the heart with love aglow. Whitefoot.
This time the man into whose nets he had blundered, merely stood behind a tree, and at sight of his shadowy figure Whitefoot got himself out of the neighbourhood. Men with nets, guns that went off with a bang, and dead things that kicked and bled were connected in Whitefoot's mind with such night expeditions. So no wonder he betook himself away as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible.
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