And if the wheat were tall, he still braved it--lost to sight at the bottom.

Then one might observe the mystery of a furrow ploughing itself swiftly across the billows without visible agency.
When I do not walk, to give countenance to his running, he has a game of his own.

He plays it with an ancient fur cap that he keeps conveniently stored.

The cap represents a prey of considerable dignity which must be sprung upon and shaken again and again until it is finally disabled.
Then it is to be seized by implacable jaws and swiftly run with about the yard in a feverish pretence that enemies wish to ravish it from its captor.

Any chance observer is implored to humor this pretence, and upon his compliance he is fled from madly, or perhaps turned upon and growled at most directly, if he show signs of losing interest in the game.
This ceaseless motion, with its attendant nervous strains, has prevented any accumulation of flesh, and explains the name of Slim Jim affixed to him by my namesake.
Jim consented now to rest for a moment at my feet, though at a loss to know how I could be calm amid so many exciting smells.