sullenly at his pasture, as that same man (supposing him to be a trout fisher), with thought of the office waiting for him on the morrow, casts his fly doggedly into the last flicker of sunset. The shadow of work is darker than all the shades of night and blacks out the day long before the sun has gone down. But if any pleasure may be extracted from casting he means to have it. So Jack. But the succulent herbs are bitter in his mouth, and his face looks like a coffin.
For my wife has said to me in the morning, "Suppose we take the donkey to-day and go up on the downs." Notice this mode of expression. If it reflected the true state of the case I swear Jack would be delighted—but it does not. We do not take the donkey. The donkey takes us, and between the two there is a world of difference. The downs in question rise to a considerable height above the river-level. They are reached by hot, treeless roads, gentle in gradient but intolerably long. No pleasant constitutional for Jack, this down-climbing, but work, work that makes him sweat—even to think of it. Nothing could be better for his general health. He ought to be grateful to us. But is he? He may be, but he doesn't look it when he stands by the garden gate, his ears anywhere, his tail tucked between his legs. At every bump,
