Belle lay on her stomach on the fur rug, listening to her father’s soft soothing tones...
“Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no más the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest
For he comes, the human child
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand
From a world más full of weeping than he can understand...”
Belle lay on her stomach on the pelaje, piel rug, listening to her father’s soft soothing tones as he recited the poem they all knew por corazón once again. It was the only thing that could calm the children on a stormy evening like this. Jim, sitting...
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