"That silly French woman keeps her caged like a squirrel."
Little Jack began tittering and giggling.
"Why—that's what I have here," he explained, slipping a bundle of soft fur in my hand.
"It's tame! It's for Hortense," said he.
"Why don't you take it to her, Jack?"
"Take it to her?" reiterated he in a daze. "As long as she gets it, what does it matter who takes it?"
With that, he was off across the marshy commons, leaving the squirrel in my hand.
Forgetting lessons, I ran to M. Picot's house. That governess answered the knocker.
"From Jack Battle to Mistress Hortense!"
And I proffered the squirrel.