“But what is to be done about it then, dear?” I asked; for such violence of anguish was unusual on the part of Robin. “We can’t keep him here any longer. You can see that for yourself.”
“Then let’s have a nice little funeral,” sniffed Robin, pathetically. “We’ll b-bury him beneath the crimson bramble rose, and you can read some of the com-comfortable words out of my little red prayer-book.”
“But, Bobsie,” I remonstrated; “prayer-books weren’t written about clams! I don’t think there is anything here.”
“You said I would always f-find something to c-comfort me,” sobbed Bobsie. “And now, when I need it most,—you won’t even look!”
What was to be done? Robin’s faith was really touching. I could not bear to disappoint him, if it could be helped.
“Well, honey,” I said, at last, “don’t cry any more. We will bury Abraham Lincoln under the crimson bramble rose. Come,—you shall dig the grave with this silver teaspoon, and then if there is anything about clams in the prayer-book, I’ll read it to you.”
So Abraham Lincoln was neatly interred; and as Robin patted down the earth with the bowl of his silver spoon, I began in a grave voice from the Benedicite:
“O ye Whales, and all that move in the waters, bless ye the Lord: praise Him, and magnify Him for ever.”
It was the best I could do, after a vain flutter of pages, and though a clam isn’t exactly the same as a whale, Robin was more than satisfied.
“What did I tell you?” he asked. “I knew there’d be something if only you would look! And I s’pose Abraham Lincoln moved, Elizabeth, when he came from the fishman’s at Christmas to this little globe.”