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It was rather cold, and very wet under foot, for a lot of rain had fallen in the past week, and the mere, which was usually only a sedgy pond, had now grown to a great expanse of shallow flood-water.

He was a funny little wizened old man, in a shabby long green overcoat which had once been black; and he wore on his head the oldest and tallest and greenest bowler hat that ever graced a human head. But he said no more, for Bill had shaken it playfully at the dogs. It was so very dziei down there by the dyke that Bill began to feel eerie. He thought he saw duck moving.

I bought this stick from him. Also Gyp, the spaniel, and Shawn, the Irish setter, at the sight of him dropped their tails between their legs and remembered an engagement a long way off.

He seemed to know what was wanted, for he at once took a stick from his bundle. It was a double-barrelled bore, and Dzisci knew that he would be lucky if he got a duck dziieci it; but a duck was to him a bird of mystery, true wild game, and he preferred the chance of one to the certainty of many rabbits. Please purchase full version of the book to continue.


This seemed to Bill to be all that could be desired in the way of excitement.

The minutes passed, the grey afternoon sky darkened towards twilight, but no duck came. As soon as they saw it they went off to keep another urgent engagement—this time apparently with a long-distance hare—and Thomas was yelling and whistling for ten minutes before he brought them to heel.

Feeling a little aggrieved and imperfectly equipped, he rushed out to join Thomas. Next day, which was Sunday, would be devoted to wandering about with Peter, hearing from him all the appetising home news, and pouring into his greedy ears the gossip of the foreign world of school.

Nor would he accept a knobbly cane proffered by Peter. Far away he thought he detected the purring noise which Thomas made to stir the duck, but no overhead beat of wings followed. They both looked back, but there was no sign of any old man in the green lane. Yet Bill, as soon as he saw it, felt that it was the one stick in the world for him.

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But they were not coming to him, and he realised what was happening. Pobierz fragment dostosowany na: Bill could not find his own proper stick. He drove his new stick into the ground, and used the handle as a seat, while he rested his gun in the orthodox way in the crook of his arm. The first shadow of a cloud appeared after luncheon, when he had changed into knickerbockers and Thomas and the dogs were waiting by the gun-room door.

Yes, he was certain of it—they were coming from the direction of Thomas and the dogs. Indeed, if Bill had not been so absorbed in his purchase, he would have noticed that there was no sign of the hornbeam either. There was far too much water on the moor, and the birds, instead of flighting across the mere to the boundary slopes, were simply settling on the flood.


He would cut himself an ashplant in the first hedge. This was the second warning, for of course a hornbeam is a mysterious tree.

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Now a farthing is not a common coin, but Bill happened to have one—a gift from Peter on his arrival that day, along bullrbyn a brass cannon, five empty cartridges, a broken microscope, and a badly-printed, brightly-illustrated narrative called Two Villains Foiled.

It was a long hazel staff, given him by the second stalker at Glenmore the year before—a staff dzieeci taller than Bill, a glossy hazel, with a shapely polished crook, and without a ferrule, like all good stalking-sticks. He scrambled up the bank of the dyke and strained his eyes over the mere between the bare boughs of the thorn.

Also he heard snipe, but he could not locate them in the dim weather.

Editions of Die Kinder aus Bullerbü by Astrid Lindgren

Our hero is a teenage boy who buys a walking stick from a beggar — a magic walking stick that allows the boy to visit many places at his command There seemed to be redshank calling, too, which had no business there, for they should have been on the shore marshes.

The mood of eager anticipation died away, and he grew rather despondent. It is right to take off your cap to a single magpie, or to three, or to five, but never to an even number, for an even number means mischief.