I see our garden in the first fine days of the year; our garden--it is behind that wall--so narrow is it that the reflected sunshine from our two windows dapples the whole of it; so small that it only holds some pot-encaged plants, except for the three currant bushes which have always been there.

In the scarves of the sun rays a bird--a robin--is hopping on the twigs like a rag jewel.

All dusty in the sunshine our red hound, Mirliton, is warming himself.

So gaunt is he you feel sure he must be a fast runner.
Certainly he runs after glimpsed rabbits on Sundays in the country, but he never caught any.

He never caught anything but fleas.