WOOD FIRES 



I thought of this on that first November night, 

 with the wood fire burning inside and the wind 

 soughing outside. The yellow dog was stretched 

 out limp and contented, broadside on to the blaze ; 

 and Charlie, examining the books, was firing ques 

 tions at me like a Maxim gun. Was not this the 

 real Robinson Crusoe thing of one s boyhood, 

 once unattainable: I was not skilled in self- 

 analysis, and I tried very hard to find out, as I 

 stretched out my legs in imitation of the yellow 

 dog, what the charm of it was to the masculine 

 brute. Was it his independence of his fellows, or 

 only the desire to be monarch of all he surveyed, 

 and get away from the &quot; church-going bell ? &quot; I 

 had a sneaking suspicion, which I took good care 

 that the yellow dog should not see, that at the 

 bottom it was sheer selfishness, but as I said, I 

 was not skilled in this unravelling, and so I gave 

 it up. One assurance was much more definite. I 

 had outwitted sudden death, actually pulled out 

 his dart and thrown it back at him, and he had 

 slunk away. Was this an illusion? No, the 

 Doctor was right. Life was not, he said, an ad 

 justment to one s environment. There he flew, 

 in his usual vigorous manner, in the face of Her 

 bert Spencer. Life was a coordination of self. 

 Adjust your own triple natures, and the environ 

 ment will adjust itself. I remember that, because 

 I wrote it down at the time with a grim resolution 

 to understand it if it took all winter, and it grew 

 clearer as I went on. He had quoted Marcus 

 Aurelius to me. &quot; Life was the wrestler Sj not the 



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