OF AN ASS 131 



sullenly at his pasture, as that same man (suppos- 

 ing him to be a trout fisher), with thought of the 

 office waiting for him on the morrow, casts his fly 

 doggedly into the last flicker of sunset. The 

 shadow of work is darker than all the shades of 

 night and blacks out the day long before the sun 

 has gone down. But if any pleasure may be 

 extracted from casting he means to have it. So 

 Jack. But the succulent herbs are bitter in his 

 mouth, and his face looks like a coffin. 



For my wife has said to me in the morning, 

 " Suppose we take the donkey to-day and go 

 up on the downs." Notice this mode of expres- 

 sion. If it reflected the true state of the case 

 I swear Jack would be delighted but it does not. 

 We do not take the donkey. The donkey takes 

 us, and between the two there is a world of 

 difference. The downs in question rise to a 

 considerable height above the river-level. They 

 are reached by hot, treeless roads, gentle in 

 gradient but intolerably long. No pleasant 

 constitutional for Jack, this down -climbing, but 

 work, work that makes him sweat even to think 

 of it. Nothing could be better for his general 

 health. He ought to be grateful to us. But is 

 he? He may be, but he doesn't look it when 

 he stands by the garden gate, his ears anywhere, 

 his tail tucked between his legs. At every bump, 



