“See that flower there?”
“It’s a candle, and it’s not there.”
“Yes, it is a black cross, and it’s coming out of the ground. – Nearer each day to thee.”
The crippled sparrow* sat unperturbed while the haughty crow kept on smoking his thoughtful pipe. They called each other Dr. Johnson and Sweet Louise in their tenderer, less combative moments.
Eventually the silence of the austere library was broken by the minnow maid traipsing in** to serve tea.
* one wing missing
** on the end of its tail
– James Steerforth (© 2007)