Morning's at Seven [antikvár]

One Dawn, and a cold-porridge sky. A few wet clouts of snow still lying in the angles of the roof. In the big, rambling house the family were wrapped in Sunday morning hibernation, huddled against the cold and the coming day. But Gaylord was impervious to cold. Young Gaylord Pentecost was impervious to almost everything. Waking, he tramped about on his bed for a bit. Tiring of this, he hitched his pyjamas about his non-existent waist, and set off on a goodwill tour of the house. He went to see Grandpa. It was dark in Grandpa's room. He drew the curtains. The curtains were on brass rings. Drawn by anyone they made a nőise like castanets. Drawn by Gaylord they sounded like a pile-up on the Mi. Grandpa did not even open his eyes. 'Get the hell out of here,' he said. Under the bedclothes Grandpa was a tight, round little mountain. Gaylord took a flying leap and landed on top of the mountain. T'm a knight,' he cried. 'And you are my charger.' 'I am not a charger,' said Grandpa. T am just an old man seeking a little rest, God help me.' Gaylord put an examining finger on one ancient eyelid. He pushed it up, gazed thoughtfully at the yellow, baleful eye. He let it fali. 'Shall I make you a cup of tea?' 'If it will take a long time, yes,' said Grandpa. Gaylord dismounted. 'Won't be two ticks,' he said cheer-fully. 'Please don't hurry,' said Grandpa. Gaylord went to see Great Aunt Marigold. 'Would you like a cup of tea?' he cried from the doorway. But Aunt Marigold, whose hearing-aid was on the bed-side table with her glasses and her teeth, Aunt Marigold