had had no experience with women. He did not understand women.
Madge's skirts were something he never quite accepted. The swish
of them was enough to set him a-bristle with suspicion, and on a
windy day she could not approach him at all.

On the other hand, it was Madge who fed him; also it was she who
ruled the kitchen, and it was by her favor, and her favor alone,
that he was permitted to come within that sacred precinct. It was
because of these things that she bade fair to overcome the handicap
of her garments. Then it was that Walt put forth special effort,
making it a practice to have Wolf lie at his feet while he wrote,
and, between petting and talking, losing much time from his work.
Walt won in the end, and his victory was most probably due to the
fact that he was a man, though Madge averred that they would have
had another quarter of a mile of gurgling brook, and at least two
west winds sighing through their redwoods, had Wait properly
devoted his energies to song-transmutation and left Wolf alone to
exercise a natural taste and an unbiassed judgment.

"It's about time I heard from those triolets", Walt said, after a
silence of five minutes, during which they had swung steadily down
the trail. "There'll be a check at the post-office, I know, and
we'll transmute it into beautiful buckwheat flour, a gallon of
maple syrup, and a new pair of overshoes for you."

"And into beautiful milk from Mrs. Johnson's beautiful cow," Madge
added. "To-morrow's the first of the month, you know."

Walt scowled unconsciously; then his face brightened, and he
clapped his hand to his breast pocket.