bookcase close at
hand and, resolving to return it the next morning, turned to a
good-night romp with the Volsung. We tried several new games without
winning much popular applause. He was a failure as Wolf at the Door,
because he barked so gleefully for admittance to the room where
Joy-of-Life was brushing her mother's beautiful white hair and was so
welcome when he came bursting in; nor did he shine as Mother Hubbard's
dog, for his friend in the kitchen, Cecilia, who never let her cupboard
go bare, had just filled the doughnut jar. So we practiced in secret
for a few minutes on "a poetic recital" of Hickory Dickory Dock and
then came forth to electrify the household. Taking a central seat, I
repeated those talismanic syllables, at whose sound Sigurd jumped upon
me, climbed up till his forepaws rested on the high top of the chair,
in graphic illustration of the way the mouse ran up the clock, emitted
an explosive bark when, shifting parts at a sudden pinch, he became for
an instant the clock striking one, and then scrambled down with
alacrity, a motion picture of the retreating mouse. This was no small
intellectual exercise for a collie, and at the end of our one and only
public performance he broke away and squeezed himself under the sofa,
where he lay rubbing his poor, overwrought noddle against the coolest
spot on the wall.

His mental energies had revived by morning and apparently he wanted to
review his _Hickory Dickory Dock_, for he was in my study earlier than
I and there, from all the rows of books on all the open shelves, he
must needs pick out _Mother Goose_, even that unique copy _de luxe_.
When I came in, there was Sigurd outstretched on his favorite rug,
beside my desk, with the book between his forepaws, ecstatically
engaged in chewing off one corner.

My gasp of horror brought Joy-of-Life speedily to the scene, and
Sigurd, instantly aware that he had committed a transgression beyond
precedent, slid unobtrusively away, his penitent tail tucked between
his legs. We were too keenly concerned over the injury done to remember
to punish him, but no further punishment than our obvious distress was
needed. Never again would Sigurd touch a book or anything resembling a
book. He had discovered, once for all, that he had no taste for
literature.

"What can you do?" asked Joy-of-Life, distractedly trying to wipe that
pulpy corner dry with her napkin. "This rich binding is ruined, but the
margins are so broad that