All day long he's p'raps bin a-flashin' his fins
an' a-twiddlin' his tail round an' round the may-fly or the brandlin'
worrum, though he knows all about the hook; but all at wonst comes
the time o' the bitin', and that's the time o' the dukkeripen, when
every fish in the brook, whether he's hungry or not, begins to bite,
an' then up comes old red-spots, an' grabs at the bait because he
_must_ grab, an' swallows it because he _must_ swallow it; an'
there's a hend of old red-spots jist as sure as if he didn't know
there wur a hook in the bait." That's what my mammy used to say. But
there wur one as could, and did, master her own dukkeripen--Shuri
Lovell's little Sinfi.'
'You have mastered your dukkeripen, Sinfi?' 'Yes, I've mastered
mine,' she said, with the same look of triumph on her face--'I swore
I'd master my dukkeripen, brother, an' I done it. I said to myself
the dukkeripen is strong, but a Romany chi may be stronger still if
she keeps a-sayin' to herself "I WILL master it; I WILL, I WILL."'
'Then that explains something I have often noticed, Sinfi.
Pages:
776
777
778
779
780
781
782
783
784
785
786
787
788
789
790
791
792
793
794
795
796
797
798
799
800