OF AN ASS 141 



the Three Villages. Half-past five, then, is his hour 

 for "taking" us home. I think that two causes 

 co-operate here (1) he has rested himself suffi- 

 ciently ; (2) he has removed the last layer of ginger- 

 bread from his bit. You suggest, acutely enough, 

 more gingerbread. Our intelligence has risen so 

 high. But a ton of gingerbread should not stop 

 the ass's braying when he means to depart. He 

 accepts the gingerbread, but he brays as he 

 munches. So we return at a brisk pace, broken 

 only at one spot, a public-house, up to which he 

 always dashes at the gallop and stops. For 

 gingerbread is thirsty stuff. Behind him as we go, 

 we sing, versifying alternately like troubadours, 

 extolling his and our own merits, praising the 

 institution of tea in the open, lampooning the 

 Vicar, congratulating the Cloud Artist on the 

 afternoon's arrangements. 



At his paddock the ass makes one last deter- 

 mined bid for freedom, fails to bring it off, and 

 ultimately, with a most righteous demeanour, 

 trots the few remaining yards and draws up of 

 his own accord at our gate. Mrs. Bunting appears 

 labouring towards us, smiling to see the ass safely 

 home. We unship our monstrous collection of 

 necessaries. We all separate. 



Five minutes later the ass has resumed his 

 interrupted day's meal. 



