A thin thread of smoke
comes idly from the chimney of the lean-to in the early morning, and at
evening the old man sits in the well-house porch reading his paper so
long as the light lasts, a hound of the ancient blue-spotted variety,
with heavy black and tan markings, keeping him company.
These two figures give the finishing touch to the picture that lies
beyond us as we look from the sheltered corner of the camp, and
strangely enough, though old Opie is not of the direct line and has
never lived in this part of New England before, he goes about with a
sort of half-reminiscent air, as if picking up a clew long lost, while
Dave, the hound, at once assumed proprietary rights and shows an uncanny
wisdom about the well-nigh fenceless boundaries. After his master has
gone to bed, Dave will often come over to visit us, after the calm
fashion of a neighbour who esteems it a duty. At least that was his
attitude at first; but after a while, when I had told him what a fine,
melancholy face he had, that it was a mistake not to have christened him
Hamlet, and that altogether he was a good fellow, following up the
conversation with a comforting plate of meat scraps (Opie being
evidently a vegetarian), Dave began to develop a more youthful
disposition.
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