said a word, nor scarcely harboured a thought, that was not lovely and
virtuous since I entered these gates, and yet there are those who think
me fantastic, difficult, hard to please, unreasonable!

I believe the saints must have lived in the country mostly (I am certain
they never tried Hydropathic hotels), and why anybody with a black heart
and natural love of wickedness should not simply buy a poultry farm and
become an angel, I cannot understand.

Living with animals is really a very improving and wholesome kind of
life, to the person who will allow himself to be influenced by their
sensible and high-minded ideals. When you come to think about it, man is
really the only animal that ever makes a fool of himself; the others are
highly civilised, and never make mistakes. I am going to mention this
when I write to somebody, sometime; I mean if I ever do. To be sure, our
human life is much more complicated than theirs, and I believe when the
other animals notice our errors of judgment they make allowances. The
bee is as busy as a bee, and the beaver works like a beaver, but there
their responsibility ends. The bee doesn't have to go about seeing that
other bees are not crowded into unsanitary tenements or victimised by the
sweating system. When the beaver's day of toil is over he doesn't have
to discuss the sphere, the rights, or the voting privileges of
beaveresses; all he has to do is to work like a beaver, and that is
comparatively simple.




CHAPTER XIII