William lovingly gathered up his stag beetle and woodlice and centipedes and earwigs and took them downstairs, leaving his mother groaning over the crumby marmalady drawer....
He put them into cardboard boxes and punched holes in the tops. He put Albert, the gem of the collection, in a small box in his pocket.
Then it began to rain and he came back to the house.
There was nothing to do....
He wandered from room to room. No one was in. The only sounds were the sounds of the rain and of his mother furiously scrubbing at the drawer upstairs. He wandered into the kitchen. It was empty. On the table by the window was a row of jam jars freshly filled and covered. His mother had made jam that morning. William stood by the table, half sprawling over it, resting his head on his hands and watched the rain disconsolately. There was a small knife on the table. William took it up and, still watching the rain, absent-mindedly “nicked” in all the taut parchment covers one by one. He was thinking of Albert. As he nicked in the parchment, he was vaguely conscious of a pleasant sensation like walking through heaped-up fallen leaves or popping fuschia buds or breaking ice or treading on nice fat acorns.... He was vaguely sorry when the last one was “nicked.”
Then his mother came in.
“William!” she screamed as she saw the jam jars.
“What’ve I done now?” said William innocently. “Oh ... those! I jus’ wasn’t thinking what I was doin’. Sorry!”
Mrs. Brown sat down weakly on a kitchen chair.
“I don’t think anyone ever had a boy like you ever before William,” she said with deep emotion. “The work of hours.... And it’s after time for you to get ready for Miss Lomas’ class. Do go, and then perhaps I’ll get a little peace!”