![]() This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a row. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.Īnd we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward the house and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and Mrs. Or, if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of our enemy and prey, the neighbour's polar cat. ![]() ![]() Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that we never heard Mrs. Sleek and long as jaguars and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and sidle over the white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I, fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road, would hurl our deadly snowballs at the green of their eyes. Patient, cold and callous, our hands wrapped in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. ![]()
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