DAYS WERE drawing out as the winter ended, and, in the sun, my dog played in his wild way with the pet deer. The crowd going to the market gathered by the fence, and laughed to see the love of these playmates struggle with languages so dissimilar. The spring was in the air, and the young leaves fluttered like flames. A gleam danced in the deer's dark eyes when she started, bent her neck at the movement of her own shadow, or raised her ears to listen to some whisper in the wind. The message comes floating with the errant breeze, with the rustle and glimmer abroad in the April sky. It sings of the first ache of youth in the world, when the first flower broke from the bud, and love went forth seeking that which it knew not, leaving all it had known. And one afternoon, when among the amlak trees the shadow grew grave and sweet with the furtive caress of light, the deer set off to run like a meteor in love with death. It grew dark, and lamps were lighted in the house; the stars came out and night was upon the fields, but the deer never came back. My dog ran up to me whining, questioning me with his piteous eyes which seemed to say, 'I do not understand!' But who does ever understand?
