They came silently along in an
awkward, wavering line, as quietly as a procession of web-footed
ghosts, until they were almost upon us. Then the leader shot out his
wings with a hoarse cry, every goose in the procession followed his
example, and with a rush they flapped past us, half running, half
flying. It was done with such startling suddenness that it caused a
general upsetting of our party. Phil veered to one side, and over we
went in a heap, music-box, Elsie, barrow, and all, with myself on top.
There was a frightened scream from Elsie, followed by a steady
downpour of tears as Phil picked her up. She had struck her forehead
on a cobblestone, and a big blue bump was rapidly swelling above one
eye. Her nose was bleeding a little, too. Phil was so occupied in
trying to comfort her, and in wiping away the blood, that it was
several minutes before he thought of the music-box. When he picked it
up he found it was so badly broken that it would no longer play.
"Oh, what will papa say!" cried Elsie. The little fellow made no
answer, but could scarcely keep from crying himself, as he lifted it
on the barrow, to start back home.
"When will we be there, brother?" asked Elsie, when they had trudged
along for some time. She was holding on to the tail of his jacket,
sniffling dismally. Phil stopped, for they had reached a street
corner, and looked around.
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