“‘Whatever have you been doing, Cockie?’ I asked. ‘Have you had an accident?’
“‘Accident, indeed!’ replied Cockie. ‘No, it was no accident, but a daring premeditated attempt at parricide.’
“‘Parricide,’ I cried, ‘you don’t mean to say that your son—’
“‘O! but I do though,’ interrupted Cockie. ‘You know, sir, that he follows me to the door, and attempts to take the bit out of my mouth, and you’ve seen me fling him a piece of meat.’
“‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and then try to chase him away, and the young rascal runs backwards, and sings defiance in your face.’
“‘True, sir; and to-day, when I tried to reason with him, he flew right at me—at his father, sir—and toppled me heels over head into the water-vat, and I’m sure I’ve caught a frightful cold already.’
“‘There’s a fire in my study, Cockie, if you care to go in.’
“‘No, thank you, sir, I’ll sit in the sun.’
“December 22.—The weather gets colder and colder. I interviewed a speckle-breasted thrush to-day, who had come to the garden-room-door to be fed.
“‘On winter nights,’ I asked, ‘do you not suffer very much from the cold?’