“Why Y. D.?” I inquired, curiously.
“Year of disgrace,” was the prompt reply. “Bless me! this must be a Post Office pen,” he went on, as the pen scattered the ink about in all directions. “They are always bad, you know.” Then, having asked the Wallypug no end of questions, not only about our journey, but on all sorts of private matters also, the wretched-looking bird gathered up his papers, which were covered with unintelligible blots and scratches and scattered in all parts of the room, and, tucking them under his wing, departed, to have the matter set up in print.
“THIS MUST BE A POST OFFICE PEN,” SAID THE CROW.
CHAPTER XIV.
“GOOD FOR THE COMPLEXION.”
The Crow had scarcely left the room when there was another knock, and without waiting for a reply the Cockatoo burst into the room in a fine fluster. She was followed by the Kangaroo and Oom Hi.
“Look at them! Look at them!” she blurted out, “did you ever see such objects in all your life. What a color!”