TAKING REINS IN HAND 



slow-pacing age has declared itself in gray 

 hair, and the bent figure. It is tearing leaf 

 on leaf out of the thin book where our lives 

 are written. 



Even the farmer's dog slipped around the 

 angles of the house, as the change was going 

 forward, with a fitful, frequent, uneasy trot, 

 as if he were disposed to make the most of 

 the last privileges of his home. The cat alone, 

 of all the living occupants, took matters com- 

 posedly, and paced eagerly about from one 

 to another of her disturbed haunts in buttery 

 and kitchen, with a philosophic indifference. 

 I should not wonder indeed if she indulged 

 in a little riotous exultation at finding access 

 to nooks which had been hitherto cumbered 

 with assemblages of firkins and casks. I 

 have no faith in cats : they are a cold-blooded 

 race; they are the politicians among domestic 

 animals; they care little who is master, or 

 what are the overturnings, if their pickings 

 are secure; and what are their midnight cau- 

 cuses but primary meetings? 



MY BEES 



A SHELF, on which stood five bee-hives with 

 their buzzing swarms, stood beside a clump 



55 



