The naked boy in the green nest brushed a swarm of flies from his handful of sticky sweetmeats, looked up, pounded the clumsy shoulders, and shrilled a command.

Staring doubtfully, and trembling, the buffalo swayed past, the wrinkled armor of his gray hide plastered with dry mud as with yellow ochre.

To the slow click of hoofs, the surly monster, guided by a little child, went swinging down the pastoral shade,--ancient yet living shapes from a picture immemorial in art and poetry.
"Please," begged Rudolph, trying with his left hand to loosen her grip.
"Please, that hurts." For a second they stood close, their fingers interlacing.

With a touch of contempt, he found that she still trembled, and drew short breath.
Her eyes slowly gathered his meaning.
"Oh, that!" She tore her hand loose, as though burned.

"That! It _was_ all true, then.