"There's John! and there's old Carlo! and
there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their
hands.
At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking servant in
livery waiting for them; he was accompanied by a superannuated
pointer and by the redoubtable Bantam, a little old rat of a pony
with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly
by the roadside, little dreaming of the bustling times that
awaited him.
I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little fellows
leaped about the steady old footman and hugged the pointer, who
wriggled his whole body for joy. But Bantam was the great object
of interest; all wanted to mount at once, and it was with some
difficulty that John arranged that they should ride by turns and
the eldest should ride first.
Off they set at last, one on the pony, with the dog bounding and
barking before him, and the others holding John's hands, both
talking at once and overpowering him with questions about home
and with school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling in
which I do not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated;
for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had known
neither care nor sorrow and a holiday was the summit of earthly
felicity.
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