about how fighting feels]

Still--for us--reading is natural. If we were more robust, as a race, or
if earth-ways were kinder, we should not turn so often to books when we
wanted more life. But a fragile yet aspiring species on a stormy old
star--why, a substitute for living is the very thing such beings need.

On Authors

The Enjoyment of Gloom

[Illustration]

There used to be a poem--I wish I could find it again--about a man in a
wild, lonely place who had a child and a dog. One day he had to go
somewhere So he left the dog home to protect the child until he came
back. The dog was a strong, faithful animal, with large, loving eyes.

Something terrible happened soon after the man had gone off. I find I'm
rather hazy about it, but I think it was wolves. The faithful dog had an
awful time of it. He fought and he fought. He was pitifully cut up and
bitten. In the end, though, he won.

The man came back when it was night. The dog was lying on the bed with
the child he had saved. There was blood on the bed. The man's heart
stood still. "This blood is my child's," he thought hastily, "and this
dog, which I trusted, has killed it." The dog feebly wagged his tail.
The man sprang upon him and slew him.

He saw his mistake immediately afterward, but--it was too late.

When I first read this I was a boy of perhaps ten or twelve. It darn
near made me cry. There was one line especially--the poor dog's dying
howl of reproach. I think it did make me cry.

I at once took the book--a large, blue one--and hunted up my younger
brothers. I made them sit one on each side of the nursery fire. "I'm
going to read you something," I said.

[Illustration: "Keep all the wolves out now."]

They looked up at me trustfully. I remember their soft, chubby faces.

[Illustration: Reading about the poor dog.]

I began the poem, very much moved; and they too, soon grew agitated.
They had a complete confidence, however, that it would come out all
right. When it didn't, when the dog's dying howl came, they burst into
tears. We all sobbed together.

This session was such a success that I read it to them several times
afterward. I didn't get quite so much poignancy out of these encores
myself but my little brothers cried every time, and that, somehow, gave
me pleasure. It gave no pleasure to them. They earnestly begged me not
to keep reading it. I was the eldest, however, and paid little
attention, of course, to their wishes.