T'S a welly anxietious thing, yoasting chestnuts is," Rupert said, shaking his head seriously.
Rupert is only four years old, but he is very fond of grand words. He speaks quite plainly and nicely, Nurse says (excepting the v's and r's), only, of course, he cannot remember always just the shape of the big words; but he uses much grander ones than I do, though I am nearly six.
But he is the nicest little boy in all the world, and we do love each other better than anybody else at all, after Mother and Father.
We made what Rupert calls an "arranglement" about always being friends with each other; that was the night we roasted the chestnuts.
It was one of the most interesting things we had ever done—and then to be allowed to do it alone! You see, this was the way.
It was the dreadfullest day we can remember in all our lives.
Because you know, first of all, Mother was so ill. And then there was a birthday party we were to have gone to.