The shadows were lengthening in the beautiful garden. It was a warm
spring evening. The old sun-dial had just struck seven.
The poet threw aside his book and called his Airedale terrier; the dog,
responding in time, eventually reached his master's knee.
Seizing his opportunity, the representative of the Press observed, "You
are, I see, fond of dogs."
"Fond of dogs?" replied the poet. "I? I detest them;" and so saying he
kicked the Airedale a distance of several feet into the air, so that,
falling immediately on the sun-dial, it was transfixed by the gnomon.
As he watched its struggles, thus impaled, the poet laughed the hearty
resonant laugh for which he was famous.