“I am rather disposed,” said Arminell, laughing, “to liken my head to a rookery in May. The matured thoughts are a-wing and wheeling, and the just fledged ones stand cawing at the edge of their nests, with fluttering wings, afraid to fly, and afraid to stay and be shot.”
“To be shot?—by whom?”
“Perhaps, by your wit. Perhaps by my lord’s blunderbuss.”
“I will not level any of my poor wit at them. Let your thoughts hop forth boldly that I may have a sight of them.”
An exclamation of distress from Giles.
“What is the matter?” asked Arminell, turning to her brother.
“The giraffe has broken his leg, and I want him to stand because he has such a long neck.”
“If you were manly, Giles, you would not say, the giraffe has broken his leg, but—I have broken the giraffe’s leg.”
“But I did not, Armie. He had been packed too tightly with the other beasts, and his leg was so bent that it broke.”
“Mend it with glue,” she advised.