Urchin innocently calls our small sheet of water, having by a
harmless ratiocination concluded that this term applies to any body
of water not surrounded by domestic porcelain.)

Now Gissing is passionate in the matter of chasing sticks hurled
abroad. On seeing a billet seized and held aloft with that sibilant
sound which stirs his ingenuous spirit to prodigies of pursuit, his
eyes were flame, his heart was apoplexy. The stick flew aloft and
curved into the pond, and he rushed to the water's edge. But there,
like the recreant knight in the Arthurian idyl, he paused and
doubted. There was Excalibur, floating ten feet from shore. This was
a new experience. Was it written that sticks should be pursued in
this strange and alien element? He barked querulously, and returned,
his intellect clouded with hesitation. What was this etiquette? He
was embarrassed.

Another stick was flung into the trembling mere. This time there was
no question. When the gods give the same sign twice, the only answer
is obey. A tawny streak crossed the small meadow, and leaped
unquestioningly into the pond. There was a plunging and a spattery
scuffle, and borne up by a million years of heredity he pursued the
floating enemy. It was seized, and a large gulp of water also, but
backward he came bearing it merrily. Then, also unknowing that he
was fulfilling old tradition, he came as near as possible to the
little group of presbyters and dehydrated himself upon them. Thus
was a new experience added to this young creature. The frogs grew
more and more pensive as he spent the rest of the morning churning
the pond hither and thither.

That will be all about Gissing for the present.