Now, I have a certain
liking for donkeys, principally, I believe, because of the delightful
things that Sterne has written of them. But this was not after the
pattern of the ass at Lyons. He was of a white colour, that seemed
to fit him rather for rare festal occasions than for constant
drudgery. Besides, he was very small, and of the daintiest portions
you can imagine in a donkey. And so, sure enough, you had only to
look at him to see he had never worked. There was something too
roguish and wanton in his face, a look too like that of a schoolboy
or a street Arab, to have survived much cudgelling. It was plain
that these feet had kicked off sportive children oftener than they
had plodded with a freight through miry lanes. He was altogether a
fine-weather, holiday sort of donkey; and though he was just then
somewhat solemnised and rueful, he still gave proof of the levity of
his disposition by impudently wagging his ears at me as I drew near.
I say he was somewhat solemnised just then; for, with the admirable
instinct of all men and animals under restraint, he had so wound and
wound the halter about the tree that he could go neither back nor
forwards, nor so much as put down his head to browse.
Pages:
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166