A JUNE DAY CHAT 



the Mexican the faithful little guardian of the 

 table d'hote the fate his parents have no doubt 

 frequently prophesied for him would long ago 

 have overtaken him. He would have made a 

 breakfast for a cat. Let us hope that when the 

 newness of the hostelry charms has, in a measure, 

 worn off, he may be willing to leave this little 

 nook in order to meet the wider experiences 

 necessary for life's preparation. 



It was early in May that the first squirrel baby 

 appeared at my table d'hote. I had been expect- 

 ing this visit for several days, having thoroughly 

 understood the meaning of the unusual activity 

 around the snug little quarter which represents 

 home to Mr. Rufus and Madame Jolie-Queue, 

 as well as the significance of their wholesale and 

 barefaced appropriation of every available bit of 

 nest-lining material for some time previous to the 

 baby's appearance. As I am in a measure con- 

 sidered responsible for my proteges' depredations, 

 they and I were equally in disgrace during this 

 petty larceny period. But the theft which, in its 

 consequences, was most humiliating and far- 

 reaching was the abstraction of a bit of clothes- 

 line. The magnitude of the evil was not connect- 

 ed with the intrinsic value of a bit of rope, but 



