This morning I pretended to be a country woman. First, I carefully raked the garden, the cats followed me like a dolphin in the wake of a ship, chasing everything, six or eight feet, fled under my furious strokes. Using an average five times more force than necessary, the rake I flew in a inaccessible point of the fence, leaving me speechless with his stick in his hand. And there it was, because all things six-and eight-legged fled to me and the cats were waiting for me there, I heard them laughing.
Determined to continue my day out, I started to pour streams of stain on the wooden platform, and the effect, after a few minutes, he was curious: the clumsy brushwork has added a decorative pattern in the shape of cat's paws. Sweet, soft, soft paws. Given the record, I was not at all surprised or irritated. I surrendered. I put the brushes, I closed the jar and I lay like a lizard in the sun.
With eyes closed, I heard a mustache that tickled my face, and others who did the same with my hand while something biting my thumb. We were all four so for half an hour to brown the first side and then another. Trilussa was right:
"There's a bee alights on a button of pink sucks and leaves. All in all, happiness is a little thing."
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