At once I was but seven years old, an ignorant age, one of great naïveté, yet mirthful despite. I had been happily entertaining myself by a canal, tossing a penny into the air and attempting to catch it with an agility reserved for only the clumsiest of creatures. Due to my inabilities in sport, the penny eventually found its way into the ruddy water, a terrible moment for both the penny and I, though undoubtedly the canal was quite pleased with the entire affair.
Prior to my penny’s plunge there existed within me an honest disdain for the canal, though now with the penny submerged within it, my dislike for the canal turned even more sour still. And here I was to be found, miserable in the face of it, it having it and all.
“Such a loathsome canal as this, one having obtained and given nothing in return, the shame of it, indeed,” I said to myself, turning my back on the water and angrily crossing my arms across my chest.
“Such a rotten child should know better than to play near a penny-pinching canal,” said the canal, much to my own surprise; “for it is widely known that I, as a canal, will surely revel in your misery and be found gleeful at your expense.”
At once I was but seven years old, an ignorant age, one of great naïveté, yet mirthful despite.