He had awakened this morning with a vague feeling that somethingwas wrong. Something was, of course. He had been turnedinto a steer. But he had always been a man who woke up easilyand gradually, and as he lay in a gentle half-doze, waiting for the smellof coffee to tell him that breakfast was ready, he tried, without anyanxiety, to account for the uneasy feeling. His most recently published paper, the one proving that Boswell was the true author of
had been attacked by several fools in the scholarly journals, but he had hisrefutation prepared: it wasn't that.The college magazine had been suspended again for another four years, but that happened after almost every issue: it wasn't that His lectures for the rest of the term were fully set up: that was all right. His childrenweren't in trouble, his wife wasn't in debt, and he hadn't been too drunk at the faculty club for several months.Smelling coffee at last, he decided that his uneasiness was justthe aftermath of some forgotten dream, and he opened his eyes.He came to his feet with a bawl of amazement: he had beensleeping among cows.His first thought was that this was some student prank. Theundergraduate body became more ingenious and unbearable eachyear; in Professor Dunbar's ideal university, no student under sixty years old would ever be admitted. But even the most brilliantand sadistic freshman would be unable to . . .His next thought was that he was insane, but he brushed thatthought aside as easily as he brushed a fly from his back: he knew perfectly well that he wasn't insane. He wasn't insane becausehe was a scholar. He was a sane scholar, and he mentally recitedthe first eighteen verses of Gray's
to prove it. But he wasstill surrounded by cows, and a dozen yards away a group of cowboyswere drinking coffee out of thick china mugs.