o see the animals
in the carnivora building at feeding time. It is a racking experience,
but one likes to go through it. Rosie's final decision was to take one
look at the beast, hear for herself the sound of its roar, then flee it
forever.

A good time to see Jamie O'Brien was after supper, in the cool of the
evening, when he slipped off his shoes, unloosened his suspenders, and
sat him down in the peace and quiet of the back yard. He had a
broken-down old arm-chair, which he knew how to prop against the ancient
little apple-tree and support with a brick at its shortest leg. For
one-half hour every summer evening, when the old chair was properly
braced, and his sock feet were stretched out at ease on a soap-box,
Jamie O'Brien knew comfort, utter and absolute. It was the moment when,
like old King Cole, he called for his pipe.

"Rosie dear, like a good child, will you bring me me pipe and a few
matches?"

Rosie, busied in the kitchen over the supper dishes, always knew just
when this call was coming, and always had her answer ready: "All right,
Dad. Just wait till I dry my hands and I will."

Tonight she gave the usual answer in the usual cheerful tone, for she
felt that it behooved her to meet deceit with deceit if she was to catch
the beast unaware. So she got Jamie his pipe, and later came out again
and perched on the arm of his chair.

"Say, Dad," she began.

She took a peep at him from the corner of her eye. Heaven knows he did
not look fierce. He was a plain, lean, little man, of indeterminate
colouring, with sparse hair, sparser mustache, and faded blue eyes,
that had a patient, far-away look in them. His face was thin and worn,
with lines that betokened years of labour borne steadily and without
complaint. He was a silent man and passed for thoughtful, though
contemplative would better express his cast of mind. He looked at things
and people slowly and quietly, as if considering them carefully before
committing himself. Then, when he spoke, it would be some slight remark,
brief and commonplace.

When Rosie began: "Say Dad," he waited patiently. After several seconds
had elapsed, he turned his head slightly and said: "Well, Rosie?"

He gave her a faint smile, and patted her hand affectionately.
Ordinarily, at this place, Rosie would have slipped an arm about his
neck, but tonight she held back.

"Say, Dad," she opened again, in a coaxing, confidential tone, "did you
have a good run today?"

The worl