THE DAY'S WORK 217 



Carlo are deep in the dreamless sleep so sweetly earned 

 by honest labour ; while the young ones, who have 

 been more excited than fagged, lie tumbled promiscuous 

 in a hairy heap, ranging through worlds where there 

 are no dog-calls nor dog-whips ; standing birds in 

 dreamland, and very possibly running in and mouthing 

 them. You sink back, with eyes contemplating 

 through the warm flicker of the sunny air the light 

 fleecy clouds becalmed here and there against the deep 

 blue of the heavens. Nothing between you and them 

 to remind you your Eden is earthly after all, but 

 a troop of these bothersome midges hovering at a wary 

 distance, and a speck something larger than they, and 

 seemingly a good deal farther off. It may be your 

 acquaintance the raven you turned out so uncere- 

 moniously ; it may be the golden eagle, the secular 

 bird of the mountain, who has had his eyrie on the cliffs 

 above from time immemorial. In any case it does not 

 greatly signify, and you have no idea of taking the 

 trouble of thinking the matter out. Already your 

 eyelids grow too heavy for the strings that should hold 

 them in suspense, and midges, eagle, everything, melt 

 back into a field of vision that removes itself dreamily 

 beyond the ken of the bodily eye. Another minute 

 or two and you are gone to your dogs ; have wandered 

 after them at least, away from the world that was so 

 all-engrossing to all of you, when you made your lively 

 start that morning from the kennels. 



Nothing like a siesta in the circumstances. You 

 waken from it another man, all languor gone from 



