A tiny white head with a small red wattle hanging from its beak was peeking into our tent. It whistled softly. I laughed. A guinea fowl.
Stella squeezed her lips together, trying to tame the ridiculous joy that flooded through her at the news that Adam was not bespoused.
Besides, the father would not give him leave to go, for he said it was no use his trying, who had so little sense; all he could do was to sit in a corner on the hearth, like a cat, rooting about in the ashes and cutting chips.
I really, really hope that you're looking to generate test data or filler text. If you're not, then DIAF.
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