Its pages were filled with charcoal drawings: doodles of his friends and family at the hotel, and portraits of the fantastic landscapes he’d seen on his travels. But Warren had no time for sketching today there were too many other problems demanding his attention. He enjoyed caring for each and every guest of his hotel, even the ones with feathers.Īs the birds ate, Warren leaned back against the chimney and flipped through his sketchbook. The crows were lazy and wouldn’t leave the birdhouse to search for their own food, but Warren didn’t mind. “Share, share!” Warren admonished. “There’s enough for everyone.” Warren set down his hammer and removed a sketchbook from his pocket he always kept a few slices of cheese tucked between its pages. He tossed them to the birds, who promptly began squabbling over the pieces. The six crows who lived in the rooftop birdhouse poked their heads out of its windows, croaking for food. Warren knelt on the hotel roof, repairing a broken tile with a hammer and nails. The steady CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! of its footfalls were loud enough to be heard for miles, but Warren the 13th hardly noticed the deafening din had become as comforting and familiar to him as the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock. It was a warm summer afternoon, and the Warren Hotel trundled over the countryside upon its enormous metal
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