The Blonde of the Species
SUNDAY was a nerve-racking problem in days when the New England tradition still held. There was no fishing, no tennis, no baseball, and no golf. Picnics were taboo. There was of course a large amount of eating to be done, but after fish-balls, griddle cakes, and pork and beans for breakfast, a heavy sermon, and a heavier roast beef for dinner, the long afternoon had to be lived through in a sort of penitential expiation. One dozen fed-to-bursting, painfully primped young human colts, ranging from fifteen to seventeen years of age, gathered in the Gutter Pup's barn and mournfully debated the eternal question of what to do.
"It's too cold to sneak up to the old swimming hole," said Tacks disconsolately.
"Why not have a few rounds with the mitts?" said the Gutter Pup eagerly.
"In these duds?" said Happy Mather, who preferred to stand because when he sat down the Sunday collar pinched his throat. "Nothing doing! Thank you, but my governer's hand is still strong!"
"We might organize a Browning Society," said Puffy Ellis, who came from Boston.
"Oh, well, since we 're all dressed up and nowhere to go, we might as well do the society racket and call on the sweet things."
"Girls!" said Skippy, sarcastically. "My aunt's cat's pants! Joe, what's got into you! You used to be human last summer. Girls! Girls! I vote we all go out and pick a bunch of dandelions for Joe Crocker to carry round."
"Hold up," said the Gutter Pup. "You give me an idea."