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Updated: July 18, 2025
"That," said he, "is an emanation an exhalation, you might say that we frequently witness in our atmosphere." "A which?" asked Buster John. "Well," replied Mr. Thimblefinger, clearing his throat, "it's er an emanation." "Huh!" cried Drusilla, "'t ain't no kind er nation. It's des de milk leakin' out'n dat jug. I done tol' Aunt 'Cindy 'bout dat leakin' jug." Mr. Rabbit and Mrs.
The reason they looked so queer was because, although they acted like children, they were old in appearance, as old as a person past middle age. "They are country-raised, poor things! You'll have to excuse them. They don't know any better." Mr. Thimblefinger sighed as he said this, and looked thoughtful. "What about the Talking-Saddle?" Buster John inquired. "You said the story wasn't finished."
Sweetest Susan caught her breath with a gasp, and laughed hysterically. She had been very much alarmed. "I expect that's what it is," said Buster John, but there was some doubt in his tone. He turned to Mr. Thimblefinger, who had followed them. "What time is it, please?" Mr. Thimblefinger drew his watch from his pocket with as much dignity as he could assume, and held his head gravely on one side.
But I'll come to see you," he pointed at Drusilla. "I'll come often." "I des said dat fer ter see what you'd say," protested Drusilla. "You wan' gwine ter take 'im, wuz you, honey?" This question was addressed to Buster John, who scorned to answer it. "Grown people wouldn't understand me," Mr. Thimblefinger explained. "They know a great deal too much to suit me."
Sweetest Susan did so, and boldly declared there was no water in the spring. She wanted Drusilla to try to wet her hand, but Drusilla sullenly declined. Mr. Thimblefinger settled the matter by walking into the spring. "Now, then, if you are going, come along," he cried. "You have just seventeen and a half seconds." He waved his hand from the bottom of the spring and stood waiting.
Meadows laughed so heartily at this that Mr. Rabbit was aroused from his nap, and looked around in surprise. "Did I hear somebody say supper was ready?" he asked. Mrs. Meadows laughed again, but this time she glanced at the sky of Mr. Thimblefinger's queer country. It had grown perceptibly darker. Mr. Thimblefinger drew out his little watch. Mr.
Now, you know when a child is worried it cries, but when a grown man is worried he sits down and looks away off, and puts his elbow in his hand and his finger to his nose so." "Oh, I've seen papa do that," laughed Sweetest Susan. "Yes, that's the way the Mayor did," Mr. Thimblefinger continued. "There was a great thief in that country who had never been caught.
"But that isn't all," remarked Mr. Rabbit, as solemnly as if he were pointing a moral. "Since that time Brother Crow, who was dressed in white, has been wearing the black suit that he won from Brother Buzzard." "Speaking of singing birds," said Mr. Thimblefinger, turning to Mrs. Meadows, "what is that song I used to hear you humming about a little bird?"
"There used to be a great many more witches than there are now," remarked Mr. Thimblefinger. "I reckon it's because folks have more business of their own to attend to; or, it may be a change in the climate. I hear old people say that the winters are colder now than they used to be, and the summers hotter. Maybe that has something to do with it.
"Come on and see Mrs. Meadows and Mr. Rabbit." Mrs. Meadows immediately dropped her knitting in her lap, and threw her hands up to her head, as if to arrange her hair. "Come in," said Mr. Thimblefinger to the children. "Yes, come on," exclaimed Mr. Rabbit in a voice that sounded as if he had a bad cold. "I'm in no fix to be seen," said Mrs. Meadows, "but I'm glad to see you, anyhow. Come right in.
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