be hiding in the winter's leaves. Having been grinding in an
office he flings himself on the great round world. He has come out to smell
the earth. Or maybe he seeks a hilltop for a view of the fields that lie
below patched in many colors, as though nature had been sewing at her
garments and had mended the cloth from her bag of scraps.

On such a journey this fellow is travelling when, at a turn of the road, he
hears the sound of barking. As yet there is no dog in sight. He pauses. He
listens. How shall one know whether the sound comes up a wrathful gullet or
whether the dog bays at him impersonally, as at the distant moon? Or maybe
he vents himself upon a stubborn cow. Surely it is not an idle tune he
practices. He holds a victim in his mind. There is sour venom on his
churlish tooth. Is it best to go roundabout, or forward with such a nice
compound of innocence, boldness and modesty as shall satisfy the beast? If
one engross oneself on something that lies to the lee of danger, it allays
suspicion. Or if one absorb oneself upon the flora--a primrose on the
river's brim--it shows him clear and stainless. The stupidest dog should
see that so close a student can have no evil in him. Perhaps it would be
better to throw away one's stick lest it make a show of violence. Or it may
be concealed along the outer leg. Ministers of Grace defend us, what an
excitement in the barnyard! Has virtue no reward? Shall innocence perish
off the earth? Not one dog, but many, come running out. There has gone
a rumor about the barn that there is a stranger to be eaten, and it's
likely--if they keep their clamor--there will be a bone for each. Note how
the valor oozes from the man of peace! Observe his sidling gait, his skirts
pulled close, his hollowed back, his head bent across his shoulder, his
startled eye! Watch him mince his steps, lest a lingering heel be nipped!
Listen to him try the foremost dog with names, to gull him to a belief that
they have met before in happier circumstances! He appeals mutely to the
farmhouse that a recall be sounded. The windows are tightly curtained. The
heavens are comfortless.

You remember the fellow in the play who would have loved war had they not
digged villainous saltpetre from the harmless earth. The countryside, too,
in my opinion, would be more peaceful of a summer afternoon were it not
overrun with dogs. Let me be plain! I myself like dogs--sleepy dogs
blinking in the firelight, friendly dogs with