GABRIEL-ERNEST



"There is a wild beast in your woods," said the artist Cunningham,
as he was being driven to the station. It was the only remark he
had made during the drive, but as Van Cheele had talked incessantly
his companion's silence had not been noticeable.

"A stray fox or two and some resident weasels. Nothing more
formidable," said Van Cheele. The artist said nothing.

"What did you mean about a wild beast?" said Van Cheele later, when
they were on the platform.

"Nothing. My imagination. Here is the train," said Cunningham.

That afternoon Van Cheele went for one of his frequent rambles
through his woodland property. He had a stuffed bittern in his
study, and knew the names of quite a number of wild flowers, so his
aunt had possibly some justification in describing him as a great
naturalist. At any rate, he was a great walker. It was his custom
to take mental notes of everything he saw during his walks, not so
much for the purpose of assisting contemporary science as to provide
topics for conversation afterwards. When the bluebells began to
show themselves in flower he made a point of informing every one of
the fact; the season of the year might have warned his hearers of
the likelihood of such an occurrence, but at least they felt that he
was being absolutely frank with them.