BROWN WOLF
SHE had delayed, because of the dew-wet grass, in order to put on
her overshoes, and when she emerged from the house found her
waiting husband absorbed in the wonder of a bursting almond-bud.
She sent a questing glance across the tall grass and in and out
among the orchard trees.
"Where's Wolf?" she asked.
"He was here a moment ago." Walt Irvine drew himself away with a
jerk from the metaphysics and poetry of the organic miracle of
blossom, and surveyed the landscape. "He was running a rabbit the
last I saw of him."
"Wolf! Wolf! Here Wolf!" she called, as they left the clearing
and took the trail that led down through the waxen-belled manzanita
jungle to the county road.
Irvine thrust between his lips the little finger of each hand and
lent to her efforts a shrill whistling.
She covered her ears hastily and made a wry grimace.
"My! for a poet, delicately attuned and all the rest of it, you can
make unlovely noises. My ear-drums are pierced. You outwhistle -
"
"Orpheus."
"I was about to say a street-arab," she concluded severely.
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