Dear Mr. Petherton,—I do not like making complaints against a neighbour, as you know, but the new tenant of your field does not seem to argue a good selection on your part, unless his braying has a more soothing effect on you than it has on me.
Yours sincerely, Harry J. Fordyce.
I was evidently in luck, as I drew Petherton's literary fire at once.
Sir (he wrote),—I should have thought that you would have been the last person in the world to object to this particular noise. Allow me to inform you that I purchased the donkey for several family and personal reasons which cannot possibly concern you.
Faithfully yours, Frederick Petherton.
I translated this letter rather freely for my own ends, and replied:—
Dear Petherton,—I apologise. I had no idea that the animal was in any way connected with your family. If it is a poor relation I must say you are fortunate in being able to fob him (or should it be her?) off so easily, as he (or she) appears to live a life of comparative luxury, at little cost, I should imagine, to yourself. I shall be glad to know whether the animal, in exercising its extraordinary vocal powers, is calling for his (or her) mate, or merely showing off for the amusement of your fascinating poultry who share its pleasaunce.
Can't you possibly fit the brute with a silencer, as the noise it makes is disturbing, especially to me, my study window being very close to the hedge?
Yours sincerely, Harry Fordyce.
P.S.—I am thinking of laying down a bed of poisoned carrots for early use. Perhaps with your chemical knowledge you can suggest an effective top-dressing for them.