We Never Speak Their Names. 91 



thick, and his reason tells him that it can't be mosquitoes 

 yet, and the sense of hearing assures that nothing is flying 

 around claiming kin with him, ' cpusin-n-n-n, cousin- 

 n-n-n-n," and he slaps his arm and hits something that 

 is not his arm or the sleeve of his pajamas, and still 

 another sense tells him that it is not mosquitoes, but a 

 different bird entirely, it is not the mere chagrin of losing 



_ o o 



blood that vexes him, nor the pain that angers him, but 

 the shame that comes to him, the blush that even in the 

 darkness suffuses his face at the thought, ' \Yhat would 

 folks say if they knew ? 



When I was a boy and lived in a detached house, only 

 low trash had such things about. I do believe that, if my 

 mother had found one. she would have keeled over in a 

 dead faint. People that live in their own separate dwell- 

 ings to-day pass their lives from infancy to old age with- 

 out seeing one, much less being bitten by one. Nice 

 people, I mean. Hut you may be as neat as wax and as 

 particular as all get out, and if you live in city flats there'll 

 come a time some day when you'll go to the drug-store 

 and lean over the counter and whisper in the druggist's 

 ear. If he says. This '11 fix 'em all right," and says it 

 a little too loudly, so that the lady waiting for her car 

 hears and smiles a little, you take your patronage away 

 and buy your postage stamps thereafter from the drug- 

 gist on the other corner. That is, you do at first. After 

 a while you get desperate and reckless, and if anybody 

 looks curiously at the bottle with the sku!l-and-crossbones 

 label, you look back at him, boldly, impudently, as much 

 as to say, Well, what of it? You've got 'em at your 

 house, too, only you don't make any effort to get rid of 

 them." 



It is all very well to say that if there wasn't " tacky 

 housekeeping the things wouldn't be there, but if you 



