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Wilson, Harry Leon, 1867-1939

"The Boss of Little Arcady"

When I took to the road, he
travelled five miles to my every one, circling me widely, ranging far
over the hills in mad dashes, or running straight and swiftly on the
road, vanishing in a white fog of dust. Walking slowly to avoid this, I
would only meet him emerging from a fresh cloud of it with a glad tongue
thrown out to the breeze. Again, there were desperate plunges into
wayside underbrush or down steep ravines, whence I would hear rapid
splashing through a hidden stream and short, plaintive cries to tell
that that wonderful, unseen wood-presence of a thousand provoking scents
had once more cunningly evaded him.
Also did he love to swim stoutly across a field of growing wheat, his
head alone showing above the green waves. And if the wheat were tall, he
still braved it--lost to sight at the bottom. Then one might observe the
mystery of a furrow ploughing itself swiftly across the billows without
visible agency.
When I do not walk, to give countenance to his running, he has a game of
his own. He plays it with an ancient fur cap that he keeps conveniently
stored. The cap represents a prey of considerable dignity which must be
sprung upon and shaken again and again until it is finally disabled.


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