"And then," said Harold, warming up, "we'd drag him into the cave
and SKIN HIM!"

For a space we gloated silently over the fair scene our
imaginations had conjured up. It was BLOOD we felt the
need of just then. We wanted no luxuries, nothing dear-bought
nor far-fetched. Just plain blood, and nothing else, and plenty
of it.

Blood, however, was not to be had. The time was out of joint,
and we had been born too late. So we went off to the greenhouse,
crawled into the heating arrangement underneath, and played at
the dark and dirty and unrestricted life of cave-men till we were
heartily sick of it. Then we emerged once more into historic
times, and went off to the road to look for something living and
sentient to throw stones at.

Nature, so often a cheerful ally, sometimes sulks and refuses to
play. When in this mood she passes the word to her underlings,
and all the little people of fur and feather take the hint and
slip home quietly by back streets. In vain we scouted, lurked,
crept, and ambuscaded. Everything that usually scurried, hopped,
or fluttered--the small society of the undergrowth--seemed to
have engagements elsewhere. The horrid thought that perhaps they
had all gone off to the circus occurred to us simultaneously, and
we humped ourselves up on the fence and felt bad. Even the sound
of approaching wheels failed to stir any interest in us. When
you are bent on throwing stones at something, humanity seems
obtrusive and better away. Then suddenly we both jumped off the
fence together, our faces clearing. For our educated ear had