"Well, I never saw an Emperor," said the raccoon; "but I certainly should not wish to talk to one, if they are all such wretched creatures as Wah-Song. I should like to have been the Finishing-Toucher; then if he had pulled my nose—hum! ha! we should see!"
"Dear Madam," said the bear, who had been staring meditatively into the fire, "there is one thing in the story that I do not understand; that is—well—you spoke of the boy's having a pig-tail."
"Yes, Bruin!" said the grandmother. "A Chinese pig-tail, you know."
"Yes, certainly," said Bruin. "A Chinese pig's tail it would naturally be. Now, I confess I do not see how a pig's tail could be worn on the head, or how it could be unbraided; that is, if the Chinese pigs have tails like that of our friend in the sty yonder."
Toto laughed aloud at this, and even the grandmother could not help smiling a very little; but she gently told Bruin what a Chinaman's pig-tail was, and how he wore it. Meantime, Miss Mary, the parrot, looked on with an air of dignified amusement.
"My respected father," she said presently, "spent some years in China. It is a fine country, though too far from Africa for my taste."
"Tell us about your father, Miss Mary!" exclaimed the squirrel. "Fine old bird he must have been, eh?"
"He was, indeed!" replied the parrot, with some emotion. "He was a noble bird. His beak, which I am said to have inherited, was the envy of every parrot in Central Africa. He could whistle in nine languages, and his tail—but as the famous poet Gabblio has sweetly sung,—
"'All languages and tongues must fail,
In speaking of Polacko's tail.'