, we'll soon get rid of that," he answers. "I'll have that down in a
jiffy."

To help him, she seizes a stick and is about to drop it. He darts
forward and snatches it from her.

"Don't you waste that one," he cries, "that's a rare one, that is. You
see me hit the old man with it."

And he does. What the gardener says, I will leave you to imagine.

Judged from its structure, the rook family is supposed to come next in
intelligence to man himself. Judging from the intelligence displayed by
members of certain human families with whom I have come in contact, I
can quite believe it. That rooks talk I am positive. No one can spend
half-an-hour watching a rookery without being convinced of this. Whether
the talk be always wise and witty, I am not prepared to maintain; but
that there is a good deal of it is certain. A young French gentleman of
my acquaintance, who visited England to study the language, told me that
the impression made upon him by his first social evening in London was
that of a parrot-house. Later on, when he came to comprehend, he,
of course, recognized the brilliancy and depth of the average London
drawing-room talk; but that is how, not comprehending, it impressed
him at first. Listening to the riot of a rookery is much the same
experience. The conversation to us sounds meaningless; the rooks
themselves would probably describe it as sparkling.

There is a Misanthrope I know who hardly ever goes into Society. I
argued the question with him one day. "Why should I?" he replied; "I
know, say, a dozen men and women with whom intercourse is a pleasure;
they have ideas of their own which they are not afraid to voice. To
rub brains with such is a rare and goodly thing, and I thank Heaven for
their friendship; but they are sufficient for my leisure. What more do
I require? What is this 'Society' of which you all make so much ado?
I have sampled it, and I find it unsatisfying. Analyze it into its
elements, what is it? Some person I know very slightly, who knows me
very slightly, asks me to what you call an 'At Home.' The evening comes,
I have done my day's work and I have dined. I have been to a theatre or
concert, or I have spent a pleasant hour or so with a friend. I am more
inclined for bed than anything else, but I pull myself together, dress,
and drive to the house. While I am taking off my hat and coat in the
hall, a man enters I met a few hours ago at the Club. He is a man I have
very little opinion of, a