For the dogs, who belong only nominally to any special master, hang
about the gate of the forest all day long, and whenever any one goes
by who hits their fancy, profit by his escort, and go forth with him
to play an hour or two at hunting. They would like to be under the
trees all day. But they cannot go alone. They require a pretext.
And so they take the passing artist as an excuse to go into the
woods, as they might take a walking-stick as an excuse to bathe.
With quick ears, long spines, and bandy legs, or perhaps as tall as a
greyhound and with a bulldog's head, this company of mongrels will
trot by your side all day and come home with you at night, still
showing white teeth and wagging stunted tail. Their good humour is
not to be exhausted. You may pelt them with stones if you please,
and all they will do is to give you a wider berth. If once they come
out with you, to you they will remain faithful, and with you return;
although if you meet them next morning in the street, it is as like
as not they will cut you with a countenance of brass.
The forest - a strange thing for an Englishman - is very destitute of
birds.
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