of unutterable interest, and hardly breathing at the critical times!
How often, at hare and hounds, have I seen him mounted on a
little knoll, cheering the whole field on to action, and waving his
hat above his grey head, oblivious of King Charles the Martyr’s
head, and all belonging to it! How many a summer hour have I
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David Copperfield
known to be but blissful minutes to him in the cricket-field! How
many winter days have I seen him, standing blue-nosed, in the
snow and east wind, looking at the boys going down the long slide,
and clapping his worsted gloves in rapture!
He was an universal favourite, and his ingenuity in little things
was transcendent. He could cut oranges into such devices as none
of us had an idea of. He could make a boat out of anything, from a
skewer upwards. He could turn cramp-bones into chessmen;
fashion Roman chariots from old court cards; make spoked wheels
out of cotton reels, and bird-cages of old wire. But he was greatest
of all, perhaps, in the articles of string and straw; with which we
were all persuaded he could do anything that could be done by
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