We paused a while, just inside the big brick-pillared gate, and
looked up the oak-arched garden path toward our house. Of course one
can't expect an old fortress of a brick house that's been neglected
for more than three quarters of a century to look spick and span
inside of a brief fortnight, but already Hynds House was sitting up,
so to speak, and taking notice.
Life had begun to flow back into it. Mary Magdalen had brought a dog
with her--a yellow dog of unknown ancestry, of shamefaced demeanor,
a ropy tail, splay feet, and a rolling eye; named, she and heaven
alone knew why, Beautiful Dog.
He shunned Alicia and me because we were white people: Beautiful Dog
was intuitively aware that colored people's dogs must meet white
people with suspicion, aloofness, and reserve. When we fatuously
sought to make friends with him, he tucked his tail between his
legs, and shivered as if we made goose-flesh come out on his spine;
and once when I took him by his rope collar he fell down and
shrieked. But just let Mary Magdalen roll out an unctious, "Whah is
yuh, Beaut'ful Dawg?" and his ears and tail went up, he curveted,
and made uncouth movements with his splay feet, and grinned from ear
to ear.
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