She slapped the
bamboo raft, and there was no such thing. She swallowed the harbour
and spit it out. She whooped and danced and teetered. She let out all
her primeval feelings. She put on no airs, and she made no pretences.
She turned everything she could find into scrambled eggs, and played
the "Marseillaise" on her blow-hole. She did herself up into knots to
break whalebone, and untied them like a pop of a cork. She was no
more female than she was science. She was wrath and earthquakes and
the day of judgment. She scooped out the bottom of the harbour and
laid it on top, and turned somersets through the middle of chaos.
Veronica took to the woods. I ran along the north shore, thinking
they were both scrambled, but I found Kamelillo pulling Kreps through
the shallows by his collar, and shaking the water out of his eyes,
and not seeming to be disturbed. But Kreps took off his spectacles
and wiped them, and he says:
"Ach, Liebchen!" he says. "She iss too much."
"Thas whale!" says Kamelillo. "Thas all right!"
"Liebchen iss too much of her," says Kreps very dignified, and
stalked to the camp.
"Thas whale!" says Kamelillo. "Thas all right!"
He chopped the jam that afternoon, and it floated out in the night
or early morning with the ebb.
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