“Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments.”
Then I thought of what my host had said concerning the too short lives of horses, and wondered what he would say about those of dogs.
“Dogs are more intelligent than horses,” I said: “why do they live a yet shorter time?”
“I doubt if you would say so in an Arab’s tent,” he returned. “If you had said, ‘still more affectionate,’ I should have known better how to answer you.”
“Then I do say so,” I replied.
“And I return, that is just why they live no longer. They do not find the world good enough for them, die, and leave it.”
“They have a much happier life than horses!”
“Many dogs than some horses, I grant.”
That instant arose what I fancied must be an unusual sound in the place: two of the dogs were fighting. The master got up. I thought with myself, “Now we shall see his notions of discipline!” nor had I long to wait. In his hand was a small riding-whip, which I afterward found he always carried in avoidance of having to inflict a heavier punishment from inability to inflict a lighter; for he held that, in all wrong-doing man can deal with, the kindest thing is not only to punish, but, with animals especially, to punish at once. He ran to the conflicting parties. They separated the moment they heard the sound of his coming. One came cringing and crawling to his feet; the other—it was the nondescript Tadpole—stood a little way off, wagging his tail, and cocking his head up in his master’s face. He gave the one at his feet several pretty severe cuts with the whip, and sent him off. The other drew nearer. His master turned away and took no notice of him.
“May I ask,” I said, when he returned to his seat, “why you did not punish both the animals for their breach of the peace?”