A certain Pheasant was pluming herself upon having become a member of the Anti-Sporting League.
"Softly, friend!" said a wily old Cock, "for, should this League of thine succeed in its object, every man's hand would be against us both by day and night; whereas, at present, our lives are protected all night by vigilant keepers, and spared all day by our owner and his guests, who are incapable of shooting for nuts!"
Note. —This is a glaring non sequitur and fallacy. I myself have never shot for nuts—but it does not necessarily follow that any pheasant would remain intact after I discharged my rifle-barrel!—H. B. J.
"It is not what we look that signifieth," said the Scorpion virtuously, "it is what we are!"
Note.—True enough—but the moral would have been improved by attributing the saying to some insect of more innocuous character than a Scorpion. Perhaps this is so in the original Styptic, for, as I have said, I cannot repose implicit faith in my young friend's version.—H. B. J.
"I have composed the most pathetic poem in the world!" declared the Poet.
"How can'st thou be sure of that," he was asked.