When cold eyes have looked at
it, the feathers are rubbed off our butterfly's wing forever.
"What have you here, my lad?" said Bonaparte, standing by him, and pointing
with the end of his whip to the medley of wheels and hinges.
The boy muttered something inaudible, and half spread over the thing.
"But this seems to be a very ingenious little machine," said Bonaparte,
seating himself on the antheap, and bending down over it with deep
interest. "What is it for, my lad?"
"Shearing sheep."
"It is a very nice little machine," said Bonaparte. "How does it work,
now? I have never seen anything so ingenious!"
There was never a parent who heard deception in the voice that praised his
child--his first-born. Here was one who liked the thing that had been
created in him. He forgot everything. He showed how the shears would work
with a little guidance, how the sheep would be held, and the wool fall into
the trough. A flush burst over his face as he spoke.
"I tell you what, my lad," said Bonaparte emphatically, when the
explanation was finished, "we must get you a patent. Your fortune is made.
In three years' time there'll not be a farm in this colony where it isn't
working. You're a genius, that's what you are!" said Bonaparte, rising.
"If it were made larger," said the boy, raising his eyes, "it would work
more smoothly.
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