A SEPTEMBER CHILL 



merge. Man must be a continual Beethoven to 



O 



a dog, uttering mystic strophes that he cannot 

 analyze. A dog is thus superior to a man in that 

 he is always saved from being a critic. 



From three o clock in the morning till sunrise 

 is the time when invalids die. It is the lowest 

 point of the great ebb. The ooze of life lies stark 

 and forbidding, and nothing stirs in it. Then it 

 is that time lags, especially if you are alone. I 

 thought of all the lonely vigils with death hover 

 ing around the near-by bed, and that being rather 

 gruesome, I tried to fill up the dismal gap with 

 an air of fussiness. I could at least imitate some 

 of the motions of life. I went out into the kitchen 

 to look for kindling, and as I pulled at the wood 

 pile, the yellow dog jumped to the conclusion that 

 I was looking for rats, and I had to choke him 

 kindly to prevent Charlie from waking up and 

 contemplating our nocturnal idiocy. I got down 

 on my hands and knees and blew at the sticks and 

 paper I had piled in the fireplace, and presently a 

 lazy spiral of smoke began to curl up the chimney. 

 Even that looked companionable. But no sooner 

 had the enlivening conflagration set in than an 

 unexpected rumpus broke out. The old chimney 

 was alive. There was a beating of wings, much 

 peeping and scratching, and down came a brood 

 of swallows, some of them flirting the firebrands 

 in all directions, and others circling round the 

 room with twittering alarm, knocking down all the 

 small articles and upsetting the lamp, as if chaos 

 had broken loose with a brood of night imps, in 



H7 



