“I could find a way of dressing dogs’ ears in any book,” muttered the melancholy poet at a distance.
“I’ll give yours a dressing, you puppy! if you don’t hold your tongue,” bawled his father.
“Dogs’ ears!” exclaimed Zabra in surprise: “we had none to-day, had we?”
“We had six different varieties, of each of which you partook,” replied the other.
“Bah!” said Oriel Porphyry, with a countenance expressing any thing but pleasure.
“But that was not the only delicacy brought on table,” continued the old man. “You seemed particularly to enjoy a fricassee of the rats of Loo Choo.”
“Rats! we haven’t been eating rats, surely?” demanded Zabra, as if horrorstruck at the idea.
“And you swallowed nearly the whole of the soup made from the large slugs of Japan!” he added.
“Ugh!” exclaimed both his visiters in a breath, looking in the highest degree disgusted at the idea of such fare.
“It is dangerous,” said the melancholy poet, gravely, “to load either the stomach or your arms with slugs; especially——” He was not allowed time to finish the sentence; for, seeing his father snatch up the dreaded bamboo, and spring off the divan towards him, with a look threatening utter extermination, he dived under a table, leaped over an ottoman, dodged round several vases, and then rapidly made his exit out at the door, closely pursued by his parent; and their visiters, fancying that they had had quite enough of Chinese hospitality, hastened their departure.