conceit and vanity; to say nothing of other wickednesses.
They are all alike. I remember sitting in a garden one sunny afternoon in the suburbs of London. Suddenly, I heard a shrill, treble voice calling from a top storey window to some unseen being, presumably in one of the other gardens, "Gamma, me dood boy, me wery good boy, Gamma; me dot on Bob's knickie-bockies."
Why even animals are vain. I saw a great Newfoundland dog, the other day, sitting in front of a mirror at the entrance to a shop in Regent's Circus, and examining himself with an amount of smug satisfaction that I have never seen equalled elsewhere, outside a vestry meeting.
I was at a farmhouse once, when some high holiday was being celebrated. I don't remember what the occasion was, but it was something festive, a May-day or Quarter-day, or something of that sort, and they put a garland of flowers round the head of one of the cows. Well, that absurd quadruped went about all day as perky as a school-girl in a new frock; and, when they took the wreath off, she became quite sulky, and they had to put it on again before she would stand still to be milked. This is not a Percy anecdote. It is plain, sober truth.
As for cats, they nearly equal human beings for vanity. I have known a cat get up and walk out of
