"My mother,—my poor mother!" exclaimed Jack. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life. For a space he rode the whirligig. . “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent.
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