THE PASSING OF THE LITTER.
It happened only a couple of weeks ago, but the horrible memory comes back to me as if it only happened yesterday. It was my own fault, because with a telephone loose about the place one ought not to encourage other pets.
"Well," I said to Sibyl, "there we are, and we must make the best of them."
Sibyl sniffed as she usually does when these periodical occurences happen in our house.
"Which of them are you going to keep?" she asked, "and is it really necessary to keep any of them?"
"Well," I said; "but——"
"What I mean to say," said Sibyl, "better do away with them when they are quite young. It would be far more humane."
"I am with you up to a point," I said; "I admit they are not a very prepossessing lot."
"How they came to be born at all is what I cannot understand," said Sibyl, who is always like that when trying to be serious.
"Well," I said, "I have decided to keep one of them—No. 1."
"But surely," said Sibyl, "that the most delicate one of the lot."
That, I well knew, was quite true. Whether I should ever rear No. 1 was a matter for time to prove. It was so delicate that once or twice already it had been on the verge of collapse, but I had rallied it each time.
"As for the others," I said, "we shall have to get rid of them."
I need not go into painful details, but the thing was easily done. That very evening, unfortunately, through an oversight, No. 1 perished also.
For this I blame McWhirter.
"The number of my bus is 21," he said in the theatre buffet that night; "by the way what's yours?"
"Whisky," I said absent-mindedly, "and not much soda."
And it was only after I had drunk it that I realised my error. It was then too late.
And that is how New Year Resolution No. 1—the most delicate of the litter—passed away at the early age of one week.
Our Plutocratic Sportsmen Again.
"Wanted, set of gold clubs, with bag, for lady."—Local Paper.