The Salamanca Corpus: Yeoman Fleetwood (1900 ... - Gredos

The Salamanca Corpus: Yeoman Fleetwood (1900)
presented him with his first pony — and surely life contains no keener joy than the
contemplation of such a possession. Simon's heart was so full, indeed, that he could
hardly speak as he walked round and round the little shaggy creature which looked so
ridiculously tiny in one of the great stalls. His eyes grew larger and larger, and his smile
broader and broader, when his
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father led him next to the harness room and showed him the little bridle, and the saddle
that was a miniature of his own — none of your pad affairs, but a real, real saddle, with
stirrups and all complete.
"Eh!" ejaculated little Simon, as he surveyed this last treasure, "eh, my word, my word!"
Further speech was impossible to him, but his radiant face spoke for him plainly
enough.
"And that's not all," said the big genial father, "there's something here that'll make a
man of thee out-and-out. See —it's a secret; I haven't told Mother yet. Thou'rt six years
old. It's time for thee to be a man."
And then and there, to the almost awe-struck delight of Simon, the grim satisfaction of
old Bill, and the openly-expressed admiration of Joe, the stableman, Mr. Fleetwood
produced from one of his saddle-bags a brown paper parcel, which on being unfastened
proved to contain a bran new little suit of clothes —jacket and trousers of green cloth,
rich in highly polished brass buttons. With big awkward fingers he helped Simon to
divest himself of the despised petticoats, and assisted him to assume the longed-for
masculine gear. Though Simon never felt any diffidence in availing himself of Jane's
aid, he would, at any other time, have blushed to perform his toilet in the presence of so
many male witnesses, but now he was too full of pride and rapture to think of such
matters, and the transformation was effected amid much jubilation.
"There!" cried Mr. Fleetwood triumphantly, when the last button and button-hole met,
"there, my lad, now thou art a lad"
Bill extended a long gnarled forefinger. "They curls, mester," he suggested. "I'd 'ave
they curls off. They gi' him naught but a wench's face." "Come then" cried the master
with a jolly laugh,