“Colonel, you ’diculous dog, you’re so hot _now_ you can hardly breathe. No; you needn’t bark. It’s too warm to play any more.” Buddie was sitting on the fallen, mossy trunk of a cedar tree, just inside the edge of the wood, throwing little sticks for her dog Colonel to fetch. Being a young dog, Colonel wanted to play all day long, and he could not understand why Buddie should tire of throwing sticks when _he_ never wearied of recovering them. So when she bent to tie her shoe-string he assumed that another stick was coming, and, yelping with delight, he crouched for the spring.…
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