"Dadda," said Dot, holding her father's hand, and, with her disengaged
hand touching the Kangaroo's little paw. "This is my own dear Kangaroo."
Dot's father, not knowing quite how to show his gratitude, stroked the
Kangaroo's head, and said, "How do you do?" which, when he came to think
of it afterwards, seemed rather a foolish thing to say. But he wasn't
used, like Dot, to talking to Bush creatures, and had not eaten the
berries of understanding.
The Kangaroo saw that Dot's father was grateful, and so she was pleased,
but she did not like to be stroked by a man who let off guns, so she was
glad that Dot's mother had run to where they were standing, and was
hugging and kissing the little girl, and crying all the time; for then
Dot's father turned and watched his wife and child, and kept doing
something to his eyes with a handkerchief, so that there was no attention
to spare for Kangaroos.
The good Kangaroo, seeing how happy these people were, and knowing that
her life was quite safe, wanted to peep about Dot's home and see what it
was like--for Kangaroos can't help being curious. So presently she
quietly hopped off towards the cottage, and then a very strange thing
happened. Just as the Kangaroo was wondering what the great iron tank by
the kitchen door was meant for, there popped out of the open door a joey
Kangaroo.
Pages:
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142