“But he’s not very big!”
“But he’s a young one.”
“Of course: the feathers are very pretty.”
“He kicks still.”
“Kill him. There; now we must pluck him this evening. Some of the feathers will do for Frances.”
“O! Frances! She’s no use,” said Mark, carrying his bird by the legs.
The head hung down, and Pan licked it. Plucking they found a tedious business. Each tried in turn till they were tired, and still there seemed no end to the feathers.
“There are thousands of them,” said Bevis.
“Just as if they could not have a skin.”
“But the feathers are prettier.”