A SEPTEMBER CHILL 



than those low-down stars looking through the 

 grim tree trunks and that unearthly chilly silence. 

 &quot; Nature herself plays the ghost at times,&quot; I said, 

 and shut the door as if to keep her out. No 

 sooner had I sat down again to brood than I be 

 came aware that the yellow dog was lying under 

 Charlie s bed eying me wistfully. I had kicked 

 her in the morning, and I could see that she bore 

 no resentment. She was waiting anxiously to find 

 out if I would kick her again or speak a kind 

 word. It was really a matter of deep concern with 

 her, and it only needed a look of passing friendliness 

 in the corner of my eye, and everything would be 

 forgotten. I must have shown some kind of com- 



O 



punction, for I heard her tail rap inquiringly. 



&quot; Come here, you yellow brute,&quot; I said. &quot;There 

 isn t anybody else to talk to. Oh, wag your tail. 

 There s no reason in the world why you should 

 not enjoy yourself to the top of your bent. You re 

 not a man. Yes, I know, I acted more like a 

 brute this morning than you possibly could, but 

 you must make some allowance for a human being 

 who hasn t anything to wag. There, that s all 

 right don t jump on me; you re a good dog, 

 and there s no need of being so demonstrative, 

 and everything is understood between us. I could 

 tell you a lot of handsome things that man has 

 said about dogs. You are the only domestic brute 

 that isn t his slave and is content to be his wor 

 shipper. Don t lick my hand either. I under 

 stand you perfectly. Don t try so hard to express 

 yourself. You want to know what s the matter 



