These are very dear to
me: their strains do not strike me as trivial; they have a
lesser distinction of their own and I would not miss them from
the choir. The literary man will smile at this and say that
my paper is naught but an idle exercise, but I fancy I shall
sleep the better tonight for having discharged this ancient
debt which has been long on my conscience.
Chapter Twenty-Five: My Friend Jack
My friend rack is a retriever--very black, very curly, perfect
in shape, but just a retriever; and he is really not my
friend, only he thinks he is, which comes to the same thing.
So convinced is he that I am his guide, protector, and true
master, that if I were to give him a downright scolding or
even a thrashing he would think it was all right and go on
just the same. His way of going on is to make a companion of
me whether I want him or not. I do not want him, but his idea
is that I want him very much. I bitterly blame myself for
having made the first advances, although nothing came of it
except that he growled. I met him in a Cornish village in a
house where I stayed. There was a nice kennel there, painted
green, with a bed of clean straw and an empty plate which had
contained his dinner, but on peeping in I saw no dog. Next
day it was the same, and the next, and the day after that;
then I inquired about it--Was there a dog in that house or
not? Oh, yes, certainly there was: Jack, but a very
independent sort of dog.
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