"He is gentil that doth gentil dedes."—Chaucer.
he birds have been awake, chirping and twittering for more than an hour, and the sun has stolen the first cool freshness from the clear dewdrops, as a pair of small feet come scudding across the lawn and down the gravel path.
Phil is up betimes to-day. He had opened his eyes as he heard cook's heavy, deliberate tread on the stairs—she is stout and old, and he knows her step well—and then he knew that it must be quite early, about half-past five.
Very gaily he tumbled out of his bed, and struggled into his white summer suit.
He grew rather mixed over the buttons. There seemed so many along the top of his small knickerbockers! What could be the use of them all? One was quite enough to hold the things together, and he made up his mind to ask nurse to cut off all the others.
Not now, though! Oh no! He only peeped into her room through the half-open door, with a mischievous smile on his sweet bonny face, and looked at her still sleeping figure, until she stirred a little. Then he promptly drew back his head, and snatching up his garden shoes, ran noiselessly down the stairs.
He watched from behind the hall curtain until cook had opened the garden door, and gone to fetch her pail.
Now came his opportunity! Pulling on his shoes, he was quickly scuttling over the grass, looking very like a small white rabbit, as he disappeared among the trees and shrubs.
I don't think that my little motherless, six-year-old friend knew that he was doing anything naughty when he escaped in this way from the vigilance of his lawful guardians.