“The Admiral can take care o’ his little self,” he said, “but there’s Murrams.”
“Yes, dear boy, and our nipper shall go over every morning, and put Murrams’s bowl of milk in through the broken pane.”
“Oh, now I’m happy, just downright happy.”
“Well, off you run. Mind never to forget to say your prayers.”
“No; and I’ll pray for Murrams, for the Admiral, for you, and all.”
He waved his hand now, and quickly disappeared.
The world wasn’t a very wide one just yet to these poor children, Ransey and Babs. It was chiefly made up of that little cottage which went by the uncanny name of Hangman’s Hall, and of the carrying barge or canal-boat yclept Ye Merry Maiden. But when at home, at the hut, they had all the sweet, green, flowery fields around them, the stream, and the wild woods. These formed the grand seminary in which Ransey studied nature, and moreover, studied it without knowing he was studying anything. To him every creature, whether clad in fur or in feather, was a friend. He knew all their little secrets, and they knew that he knew them. Not a bird that sang was there that he did not know by its eggs, its nest, or its notes; not a rabbit, hare, vole, or field-mouse that he could not have told you the life-story of. His was a—
“Knowledge never learned at schools,
Of the wild bee’s morning chase.
Of the wild flowers’ time and place;
Flight of fowl, and habitude
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell;
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
And the ground mole makes his well;
How the robin feeds her young;
How the oriel’s nest is hung;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay;
And the architectural plans
Of grey hornet artisans.”
It is true enough that this family was poor in the eyes of the world. I am sure they were not ashamed of it, however.