Warm, Cuddly and Oh So Tiny!

One more time that we searched for the missing Mrs. Roo. Katy seen her sound asleep in a rose-colored teacup on the breakfast porch. A person night Mr. Kangar chewed a hole in the display screen and hopped absent. Mrs. Roo could have followed but for some motive she did not. She seemed so lonely there huddled amid the bits of flame-coloured wool that I carried her to my desk. There she waxed enthusiastic in excess of the cubbyholes. Previously I realized it she had chewed up sufficient postage stamps for fifty letters. Mrs. Roo stood for a extended time observing my hand glide around the paper. She edged closer and closer, rushed up and lightly touched my finger strategies with her minor bewhiskered nose, then looked up at me shyly. My breath stuck in my throat. She was as well adorable.

The sound of my typewriter drove her into a panic. These small transparent ears could not stand the banging. So I put her down in the box that I now held shut to my ft. But normally when I wrote with pen or pencil Mrs. Roo was there to make rushes at my fingers and demolish my postage stamps. Dad missed Mr. Kangar from his previous armchair when he read through at nights. Quite often, in between chapters, when Dad thoughtfully smoked his pipe, he wondered what had occurred to Mr. Kangar-was he in the garden or had he gone far absent?

1 afternoon right after a rain I found a little fluff of fawn coloration go bouncing across the lawn. I rubbed my eyes and looked once more. Sure, it was Mr. Kangar. Just then brother and his pals arrived warwhooping near the property and Mr. Kangar raced to the flowerbed. I uncovered there the entrance of the burrow. All over it I scattered a goodly sum of grain and in the early morning it was gone. A single day I resolved that Mrs. Roo appeared wistfully sad. I presented her watermelon seeds and she compensated no consideration. When she refused postage stamps I grew to become frantic. She should be longing for Mr. Kangar. So that night I put her in the vicinity of his burrow, whereupon she gaily scurried into it.

I did not weep but I admit that I desired to for I loved the fairy-like Mrs. Roo with her captivating strategies. I wandered disconsolately in the garden. How simple it is to adore any fragile lovely matter that is warm and cuddly and oh, so tiny!

At night, I know, they patter out into the backyard and dance as they did very long back beneath an Oklahoma moon. In the morning I get the fairy traces of their wanderings in the dust of the garden route. Previous night time I saw Mr. Kangar and Mrs. Roo skipping about in the garden-very little bits of elfin fluff touched with the moon's silver. And I surprise if their good dark eyes sparkle with joy and if they have identified living in our garden as gay and free of cost as very long ago in the sand hills.