he earth and sky through black spectacles, I 'm afraid,"
she remarked, with a long face. But there was still an underglow of
amusement in her eyes.

"No," he answered, "because there's a compensation. As you rise in the
scale of moral development, it is true, you pass from the category of
the snatchers to the category of the snatched-from, and your ultimate
extinction is assured. But, on the other hand, you gain talents and
sensibilities. You do not live by bread alone. These goldfinches, for a
case in point, can sing--and they have your sympathy. The sparrows
can only make a horrid noise--and you contemn them. That is the
compensation. The snatchers can never know the joy of singing--or of
being pitied by ladies."

"N... o, perhaps not," she consented doubtfully. The underglow of
amusement in her eyes shone nearer to the surface. "But--but they can
never know, either, the despair of the singer when his songs won't
come."

"Or when the ladies are pitiless. That is true," consented Peter.

"And meanwhile they get the bread, crumbs," she said.

"They certainly get the bread-crumbs," he admitted.

"I 'm afraid "--she smiled, as one who has conducted a syllogism
safely to its conclusion--"I 'm afraid I do not think your compensation
compensates."

"To be quite honest, I daresay it does n't," he confessed.

"And anyhow"--she followed her victory up--"I should not wish my garden
to represent the universal war. I should not wish my garden to be a
battle-field. I should wish it to be a retreat from the battle--an abode
of peace--a happy valley--a sanctuary for the snatched-from."

"But why distress one's soul with wishes that are vain?" asked he. "What
could one do?"

"One could keep a dragon," she answered promptly. "If I were you, I
should keep a sparrow-devouring, finch-respecting dragon."

"It would do no good," said he. "You'd get rid of one species of
snatcher, but some other species of snatcher would instantly pop UP."

She gazed at him with those amused eyes of hers, and still again,
slowly, sorrowfully, shook her head.

"Oh, your spectacles are black--black," she murmured.

"I hope not," said he; "but such as they are, they show me the
inevitable conditions of our planet. The snatcher, here below, is
ubiquitous and eternal--as ubiquitous, as eternal, as the force of
gravitation. He is likewise protean. Banish him--he takes half a minute
to change his visible form, and returns au galop. Sometimes he's a