We were walking one afternoon in Bagley wood; on turning a corner we suddenly came upon a boy who was driving an ass. It was very young and very weak, and was staggering beneath a most disproportionate load of faggots, and he was belabouring its lean ribs angrily and violently with a short, thick, heavy cudgel.
At the sight of cruelty Shelley was instantly transported far beyond the usual measure of excitement. He sprang forward and was about to interpose with energetic and indignant vehemence. I caught him by the arm and to his present annoyance held him back, and with much difficulty persuaded him to allow me to be the advocate of the dumb animal. His cheeks glowed with displeasure and his lips murmured his impatience during my brief dialogue with the young tyrant.
“That is a sorry little ass, boy,” I said; “it seems to have scarcely any strength.”
“None at all; it is good for nothing.”
“It cannot get on; it can hardly stand. If anybody could make it go, you would; you have taken great pains with it.”
“Yes, I have; but it is to no purpose!”
“It is of little use striking it, I think.”
“It is not worth beating. The stupid beast has got more wood now than it can carry; it can hardly stand, you see!”
“I suppose it put it upon its back itself?”
The boy was silent; I repeated the question.