it, but because the ass wishes it. On our first excursion to the downs he behaved himself most seemly. "This," he thought, "is only once in a lifetime. I can stick it out, for hang it! they have given me lettuces." But the second time was too much for the small spark of gratitude and decency which then lurked in the black soul of this beast. It went out. "This," he thought, "is getting a bit too tough altogether. Confound them and their pâté de foie gras!" And he lifted up his voice in protest. The sacred peace of our hill-tops was shattered by outrageous sounds. The song of the ass is above nightingales in one respect. It absolutely ensures attention. A shocked world stopped to listen, laying aside its business of rolling, and we—we went home, lest the solar system be disorganised. I prayed to the ass; I appealed to his better nature. He had none. I appealed to his hide—the argumentum ad baculum. He only made more and horrider sounds. The study of Spanish was suspended. A vigorous impression of Scotch pines was lost to the world. What did the ass care? Nothing. He was going back to paddock.
Since that afternoon he has always given the signal for return. I am only surprised that he does not do it before we leave Willows. But let him try it. I would lather him braying through
