the Three Villages. Half-past five, then, is his hour for "taking" us home. I think that two causes co-operate here—(1) he has rested himself sufficiently; (2) he has removed the last layer of gingerbread from his bit. You suggest, acutely enough, more gingerbread. Our intelligence has risen so high. But a ton of gingerbread should not stop the ass's braying when he means to depart. He accepts the gingerbread, but he brays as he munches. So we return at a brisk pace, broken only at one spot, a public-house, up to which he always dashes at the gallop—and stops. For gingerbread is thirsty stuff. Behind him as we go, we sing, versifying alternately like troubadours, extolling his and our own merits, praising the institution of tea in the open, lampooning the Vicar, congratulating the Cloud Artist on the afternoon's arrangements.
At his paddock the ass makes one last determined bid for freedom, fails to bring it off, and ultimately, with a most righteous demeanour, trots the few remaining yards and draws up of his own accord at our gate. Mrs. Bunting appears labouring towards us, smiling to see the ass safely home. We unship our monstrous collection of necessaries. We all separate.
Five minutes later the ass has resumed his interrupted day's meal.
