Could this be the silent,
philosophic Stickeen? I shouted encouragement, telling him the bridge
was not so bad as it looked, that I had left it flat and safe for his
feet, and he could walk it easily. But he was afraid to try. Strange so
small an animal should be capable of such big, wise fears. I called
again and again in a reassuring tone to come on and fear nothing; that
he could come if he would only try. He would hush for a moment, look
down again at the bridge, and shout his unshakable conviction that he
could never, never come that way; then lie back in despair, as if
howling, "O-o-oh! what a place! No-o-o, I can never go-o-o down there!"
His natural composure and courage had vanished utterly in a tumultuous
storm of fear. Had the danger been less, his distress would have seemed
ridiculous. But in this dismal, merciless abyss lay the shadow of
death, and his heartrending cries might well have called Heaven to his
help. Perhaps they did. So hidden before, he was now transparent, and
one could see the workings of his heart and mind like the movements of a
clock out of its case.
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