he left them there at a safe distance and came to see you, and so perhaps renew his love, and there he lies; and if you never commit another murder I hope this one will punish you to your grave. Some murders can he explained to the dead one’s relatives, but you can never explain this one and I want to show you his right wing. I think it was that one that we used to treat.”
I didn’t want to see his wing, but father was determined, and as he lifted the feathers at the middle joint, we saw a scar, a knot in the bone where it had healed.
Everybody is a criminal more or less, and some of the crimes are done by stupid people. Thus I console myself in a way over the death of the Hutchins goose, that perhaps I am a murderer through stupidity and not by premeditation.
John Wolfard, who kept and still keeps the big store in Silverton, had an old hairless terrier dog. I can’t remember when he wasn’t “Old Bob.” He wasn’t like other dogs much, perhaps on account of being hairless. The rest of the dogs hardly recognized him as even a distant relative, but he was. No telling what breed he was and I never remember hearing
