What was this etiquette? He
was embarrassed.
Another stick was flung into the trembling mere. This time there was
no question. When the gods give the same sign twice, the only answer
is obey. A tawny streak crossed the small meadow, and leaped
unquestioningly into the pond. There was a plunging and a spattery
scuffle, and borne up by a million years of heredity he pursued the
floating enemy. It was seized, and a large gulp of water also, but
backward he came bearing it merrily. Then, also unknowing that he
was fulfilling old tradition, he came as near as possible to the
little group of presbyters and dehydrated himself upon them. Thus
was a new experience added to this young creature. The frogs grew
more and more pensive as he spent the rest of the morning churning
the pond hither and thither.
That will be all about Gissing for the present.
[Illustration]
A DIALOGUE
It was our good fortune to overhear a dialogue between Gissing (our
dog) and Mike, the dog who lives next door. Mike, or Crowgill Mike
II, to give him his full entitles, is a very sagacious old person,
in the fifteenth year of his disillusionment, and of excellent
family. If our humble Gissing is to have a three-barrelled name, it
can only be Haphazard Gissing I, for his ancestry is plainly
miscellaneous and impromptu. He is, we like to say, a synthetic dog.
He is young: six months; we fear that some of the errors now
frequently urged against the rising generation are plainly
discernible in him.
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