“Unloosen Hon. Butterfly,” she dement. “We should not punish nature’s lovely insex becouse of sins of others.”
So I grabb that lovely insex and attemp remove him from his sticky toes. But when I done so he turn meanly and bit me on thumb with hot end of his poison tail.
“That butterfly are a wasp!” I lecture amid Japanese word curse.
“Wasps does little harm,” she say sweetishly.
“What little they does can be noticed immediately,” I snarrel.
And so onwards.
After 2½ days of continuous flymanship I become extremely skilful in murder. My ears became very bright by listening for flies. At distance of 66 ft. I could hear Hon. Fly walking up windows. Then was time for me. My eyebrows containing gunpowder expression peculiar to Bwana Tumbo, I hide behind curtain-shade with cruel hand containing swat-stick. Hon. Fly approach, little imagining. Now and occasionally he stop and rubb his mittens together so they will be more ready to catch more diseases. Still I await. Of suddenly I arise uply, silently like eels drinking milk. And then. Swatts!!!
By this warfare I broke considerable flies and other dishes.
Hon. Pumphrey, husband, come home saying scorn about flies.
“What are so fatalistic about this bug all of a suddenly?” he ask it. “In childhood of youth I was affectionately acquainted with flies. While enjoying cradle-ride of infancy, flies was allowed to buzz round my head like angel whispers. And yet I live.”