I called again and I got no
answer. Through the hushes I tore as fast as my crutches would take
me, calling as I ran and hearing only the wail of the puppy, till I
broke from the cover into the open.
On his haunches, his slantwise eyes half closed, his head lifted high
in the bright sunlight, sat little Colonel, wailing. He heard me call.
He saw me. And when I reached him he was licking the white face of
Whiskey Weston.
[Illustration: Sat little Colonel, wailing.]
XIII
Hindsight is better than foresight. A foolish saying. By foresight we
do God's will. By hindsight we would seek to better His handiwork.
Things are right as they are, I say, as I sit quietly of an evening
smoking my pipe on my porch, watching the mountains in the west bathe
in the gold and purple of the descending sun. What might have been,
might also have been all wrong. A foolish saying, says Tim, for if
what might have been should actually be, then we should have the
realization of our fondest dreams. And with that realization might
come a dreadful awakening from our dreams, say I.
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