38 The Life Worth Living 



to endure the vile talk of these ignorant and 

 degenerate city dogs. All they know is the 

 latest brand of vile dog biscuits that I 

 wouldn't give a cur to eat, or about some 

 collar they wore or a new coat for a party, or 

 the last fight they had in Central Park on 

 Sunday. It made me sicker than ever. 

 Not one of them ever saw a rabbit or a quail 

 or a woodcock. I asked one of them — a real 

 setter too — if the dogs up here were good on 

 a back stand or did they crowd much. The 

 fool didn't know what I was talking about 

 and yelled back at me : " Listen at the hay- 

 seed! He don't know a street car from a 

 milk wagon ! Wow, Wow ! " And the whole 

 mob of the ill-mannered brutes yelled at me, 

 until I crawled back in a corner, lay down 

 and cried for shame that I was a dog. I'm 

 glad we're going home. I'm sick for the open 

 fields and the cool water of the springs and 

 the branches, and I've dreamed day and 

 night of the birds." 



