Built me a shelter against the rain, but could not have it to myself in
peace. The new creature intruded. When I tried to put it out it shed
water out of the holes it looks with, and wiped it away with the back
of its paws, and made a noise such as some of the other animals make
when they are in distress. I wish it would not talk; it is always
talking. That sounds like a cheap fling at the poor creature, a slur;
but I do not mean it so. I have never heard the human voice before, and
any new and strange sound intruding itself here upon the solemn hush of
these dreaming solitudes offends my ear and seems a false note. And
this new sound is so close to me; it is right at my shoulder, right at
my ear, first on one side and then on the other, and I am used only to
sounds that are more or less distant from me.