voice, in look.

The heart of a dog is meek.
He places his utter trust
In a mortal grace,
Contented his God to seek
In a creature framed of dust
With a dreaming face.

The human is our divine.
In the porch of the church, I pray
For a rustling dress,
For those dear, swift steps of thine,
Whose path is my perfect way
Of holiness.

ADVENTURES

"_Puntarvolo._ Is he religious?

_Gentleman._ I know not what you call religious, but he goes
to church, I am sure."

--Jonson's _Every Man out of his Humour_.

The zest, the fun, the excitement Sigurd infused into our human humdrum
outwent all expectation. I think it added a relish even to
Joy-of-Life's devotions at the early service of St. Andrew's that a
suppressed yelp and a vehement scamper might at any second denote
Laddie's appearance and Sigurd's instant reversion from her pious
attendant in the vestibule to a wild creature of enraptured speed. He
opened our eyes to a new vision of the most familiar things. What we
had considered merely gray squirrels were revealed, through his
glorious campaign against them, as goblin banditti bent on insult and
robbery. For on those enchanted autumn days, when we would be wandering
through the rich-colored, spicy woods, where winds laughed among the
branches and chased leaves bright as jewels down the air, these
impertinent squirrels were always scolding overhead and dropping acorns
on us. I remember one such stroll, when a falling chestnut smacked
Sigurd soundly on the nose. He at once attributed the indignity to the
squirrels--quite unjustly this time--and made off in pursuit of a wily
old fellow that whisked in and out among the slender birch boles and
led him, as if for the mere sport of it, on a far chase. I was absorbed
meanwhile in altruistic combat with a troop of ants, a foraging party
returning to their hill-castle with a company of belated beetles as
booty. As often as I brushed the ranks into confusion with a spray of
goldenrod, it was astonishing to see how quickly the discomfited ants
would rally and how immediately every one of the madly skurrying
beetles--for their pitiless captors had deprived them of their
wings--would be again a prisoner, surrounded in close formation by a
marching escort. Looking up from this insect tragedy, I saw Sigurd
tearing back with something in his mouth that, for one horrified
instant, I thought