I didn't really deserve to hear the whole story,
but the next night I happened to be in the hammock while Jonathan was
talking to a neighbor at the front gate, and he was relating the incident
with detail enough to have satisfied the most hungry gossip. Only thus did
I learn that Bill Howard, who had wound the rope twice round the post to
give himself a little leeway, was drawn right up to the post when she set
back; that they had been afraid the headstall would tear off; that they
had been rather nervous about the post, and other such little points,
which I had not been clever enough to elicit by my questions.

Now, why? Probably a man likes to tell a story when he likes to tell it. I
find myself wondering how much Odysseus told Penelope about his adventures
when she got him to herself for a good talk. Is it significant that his
really long story was told to the King of the PhA|acians?

As to Griz:--it would perhaps not be worth while to recount her subsequent
history. It was a curious one, consisting of long stretches of continuous
and ostentatious meekness, broken by sudden flare-ups which, after their
occurrence, always seemed incredible. She never again "set back" when
Jonathan was the one to hitch her, but this was a concession made to him
personally, and had no effect on her general habits. We talked of changing
her name, but could never manage it. We thought of selling her, but she
was too valuable--most of the time. And when we finally parted from her our
relief was deeply tinged with regret.

I have sometimes wondered whether such flare-ups were not the natural and
necessary means of recuperation from such depths of meekness. I have even
wondered whether the original Griselda may not have--but this is not a
dissertation on early Italian poetry, nor on the nature of women.

IX

A Rowboat Pilgrimage

We were glad that the plan of the rowboat cruise dawned upon us almost a
year before it came to pass. We were the gainers by just that rich length
of expectancy.

For the joy that one gets from any cherished plan is always threefold:
there is the joy of looking forward, the joy of the very doing, and the
joy of remembering. They are all good, but only the last is eternal. The
doing is hedged between limits, and its pleasures are often confused,
overlaid with alien or accidental impressions. The joy of the forward look
is pure and keen,