July, a
memorable date to me. A glorious, sunny morning, of the kind which
Nature provides occasionally, in an ebullition of benevolence. It is
at times such as this that we dream our dreams and compose our
masterpieces.

And a masterpiece I was, indeed, making. The new novel was growing
nobly. Striking scenes and freshets of scintillating dialogue rushed
through my mind. I had neglected my writing for the past week in favor
of the tending of fowls, but I was making up for lost time now.
Another uninterrupted quarter of an hour, and I firmly believe I
should have completed the framework of a novel that would have placed
me with the great, in that select band whose members have no Christian
names. Another quarter of an hour and posterity would have known me as
"Garnet."

But it was not to be. I had just framed the most poignant, searching
conversation between my heroine and my hero, and was about to proceed,
flushed with great thoughts, to further triumphs, when a distant shout
brought me to earth.

"Stop her! Catch her! Garnet!"

I was in the paddock at the time. Coming toward me at her best pace
was a small hen. Behind the hen was Bob, doing, as usual, the thing
that he ought not to have done. Behind Bob--some way behind--was
Ukridge. It was his shout that I had heard.

"After her, Garny, old horse!" he repeated. "A valuable bird. Must not
be lost."

When not in a catalepsy of literary composition, I am essentially the
man of action. I laid aside my novel for future reference, and, after
a fruitless lunge at the hen as it passed, joined Bob in the chase.

We passed out of the paddock in the following order: First, the hen,
as fresh as paint, and good for a five-mile spin; next, Bob, panting
but fit for anything; lastly, myself, determined, but mistrustful of
my powers of pedestrianism. In the distance Ukridge gesticulated and
shouted advice.

After the first field Bob gave up the chase, and sauntered off to
scratch at a rabbit hole. He seemed to think that he had done all that
could be expected of him in setting the thing going. His air suggested
that he knew the affair was in competent hands, and relied on me to do
the right thing.

The exertions of the past few days had left me in very fair condition,
but I could not help feeling that in competition with the hen I was
overmatched. Neither in speed nor in staying power was I its equal.
But I pounded along doggedly. Whenever I find myself fairly started on