“‘Every man thinks his geese swans’,” observed the toy merchant, with a shrug of his shoulders. “Poor idiot!”
Having delivered this remark with much contempt, old Gruff and Tackleton went out.
Bertha’s Eyes
Bertha remained where he had left her, lost in thought. The gayety had vanished from her face, and it was very sad. Three or four times she shook her head as if bewailing some loss.
It was not until Caleb had been busy for some time in yoking a team of wooden horses to the tongue of a little wooden wagon by the simple means of nails, driven through the vital parts of their bodies, that she drew near his work-bench, and, sitting down beside him, said: “Father, I am lonely. I want to borrow your eyes.”
“Here they are,” said Caleb. “Always ready. They are more yours than mine, Bertha, any hour in the four-and-twenty. What shall your eyes do for you, dear?”
“My patient, willing eyes!” the blind girl said. “Will they look around the room, Father?”
“All right, no sooner said than done, Bertha.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It’s much the same as usual,” said Caleb. “Homely, but snug. The gay colors on the walls; the bright flowers on the plates and other dishes; the shining wood, where there are no panels; the general cheerfulness and neatness of the building; all make it very pretty.”