Once in this room of
delightful possibilities, he did not care how long his mother and aunt
continued their wearisome talks downstairs of what they called "old
times." He stretched himself on a faded couch while he considered
where to begin his operations, and stared at the deeply-cut initials on
the mantelshelf, and regretted that the chimney-piece in the nursery at
home, being stone, did not lend itself to similar delights. With a
sigh he rolled over, and the rocking-horse met his gaze. He looked at
it so long that his eyes blinked. Older people would have said that
just then the old horse _creaked_--as old things have a way of doing.
But children understand these things better than old folks who have
grown dull. Basil knew quite well that the old horse had _sighed_, and
he asked him what was the matter.
"I was only wishing some one would smarten me up a bit," said the
horse. "My left eye is in that box with the tin soldiers. My tail is
tied to a stick in that cupboard where the tools are--a bit of glue
would stick both in. And one stirrup is nailed to the table-drawer for
a handle. It could be got off, and tied to my saddle-strap with a bit
of string. My mane is gone for ever. Johnny put it on a mask for
whiskers one Guy Fawkes' day, and Herbert threw it in the bonfire. I
don't suppose any of the nails can be got out that Tom knocked into my
sides; they are in too tight. Nor can the buttons and marbles be got
out of my inside that Johnny put in through the hole in my neck.
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