y possible occasion passed the
chicken.

"More chicken, Mr. Grayson?" she would inquire in a tone of voice that
made your mouth water.

"More chicken, Dick?" I'd ask.

"More chicken, Mr. Grayson," he would respond--and thus we kept up a
tenuous, but pleasant little joke between us.

Just outside the porch in a thicket of lilacs a catbird sang to us while
we ate, and my dog lay in the shade with his nose on his paws and one
eye open just enough to show any stray flies that he was not to be
trifled with--and far away to the North and East one could catch
glimpses--if he had eyes for such things--of the wide-stretching
pleasantness of our countryside.

I soon saw that something mysterious was going on in the kitchen.
Harriet would look significantly at Ann Spencer and Ann Spencer, who
could scarcely contain her overflowing smiles, would look significantly
at Harriet. As for me, I sat there with perfect confidence in myself--in
my ultimate capacity, as it were. Whatever happened, I was ready for it!

And the great surprise came at last: a SHORT-CAKE: a great, big, red,
juicy, buttery, sugary short-cake, with raspberries heaped up all over
it. When It came in--and I am speaking of it in that personal way
because it radiated such an effulgence that I cannot now remember
whether it was Harriet or Ann Spencer who brought it in--when It came
in, Dick, who pretends to be abashed upon such occasions, gave one swift
glance upward and then emitted a long, low, expressive whistle. When
Beethoven found himself throbbing with undescribable emotions he
composed a sonata; when Keats felt odd things stirring within him he
wrote an ode to an urn, but my friend Dick, quite as evidently on fire
with his emotions, merely whistled--and then looked around evidently
embarrassed lest he should have infringed upon the proprieties of that
occasion.

"Harriet," I said, "you and Ann Spencer are benefactors of the human
race."

"Go 'way now," said Ann Spencer, shaking all over with pleasure, "and
eat your shortcake."

And after dinner how pleasant it was to stretch at full length for a
few minutes on the grass in the shade of the maple tree and look up
through the dusky thick shadows of the leaves. If ever a man feels the
blissfulness of complete content it is at such a moment--every muscle in
the body deliciously resting, and a peculiar exhilaration animating the
mind to quiet thoughts. I have heard talk of the hard work of the
hay-field