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Updated: May 3, 2025
Before supper-time Peter was back in high spirits, with the needed new parts for the windmill, and an outfit of blue denim apparel for himself, and a little red sweater for Dinkie, and an armful of magazines for myself. Whinnie, as he stood watching Peter's return, clearly betrayed the disappointment which that return involved.
I inquired, remembering the mornings when I'd had occasion to waken Whinnie, always to find him sleeping as silent and placid as one of my own babies. "I had eight hours of it in which to dissipate any doubts," he pointedly explained. This mystified me, but to object to the tent, of course, would have been picayune.
But Whinnie came forth and grimly announced that the Twins were going it. So I had to turn shackward. "You really ought to get that car out," I called over my shoulder to him, with a head-nod toward the hay-stack. And he nodded absently back at me. Thursday the I Can't Remember
Whinnie, by the way, regards me with a mildly reproving eye, and having apparently concluded that I am a renegade, is concentrating his affection on Dinkie, for whom he is whittling out a new Noah's Ark in his spare time. He is also teaching Dinkie to ride horseback, lifting him up to the back of either Nip or Tuck when they come for water and letting him ride as far as the stable.
But my two little hostages to fortune cut off that chance. I've decided, however, to have Whinnie build a canopy-top over the old buckboard, and fit two strong frames, just behind the dashboard, that will hold a couple of willow-baskets, end to end.
Marget met us at the end of the house beside the brier bush, where George was to sit on summer afternoons before he died, and a flash passed between Domsie and the lad's mother. Then she knew that it was well, and fixed her eyes on the letter, but Whinnie, his thumbs in his armholes, watched the wife.
"It's that old Caledonian saw-mill with the rock-ribbed face." "What's the matter with Whinnie?" I demanded, with a quick touch of resentment. And Peter looked up in astonishment. "Do you mean you've never heard him and your shack not sixty paces away?" "Heard him what?" I asked. "Heard him snore," explained Peter, with a sigh. "Are you sure?"
"Says he tae me nae later than yesterday, 'That's a fine field o' barley ye've there, Maister Harris, an' as sure as deith a' didna ken whaur tae luik, for it was a puckle aits." "Keep's a'," said Whinnie; "he's been awfu' negleckit when he wes a bairn, or maybe there's a want in the puir cratur." Next Sabbath Mr.
I asked Dinky-Dunk about the nugget, and he says it's genuine gold, without a doubt. He also says there's one chance in a hundred of Whinnie actually having a claim up in the gold country, but doubts if the poor old fellow will ever get up to it again. It's about on the same footing, apparently, as Uncle Carlton's Chilean nitrate mines.
Old Whinstane Sandy, our hired man, has presented me with a hand-made swing-box for Poppsy and Pee-Wee, a sort of suspended basket-bed that can be hung up in the porch as soon as my two little snoozers are able to sleep outdoors. Old Whinnie, by the way, was very funny when I showed him the Twins.
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