child into the world on whom to lavish their love and affection.
The ailing Yorkie was quite near to him and his nostrils, already flaring with disgust of himself and all humanity, caught a whiff of the perfume with which his mistress had scented him. He therefore replied to Geordie McNabb out of the black cloud of anger enveloping him, “I have no time for such foolishness. Cannot you see that I am busy with a room full of people? Go put the frog back by the pond again and leave it be. Off with you now."
Into the dark, round eyes of Geordie came that expression reserved to children who have been hurt by and disappointed in their grownups. “But it’s sick,” he said. “It’s no well. Will he not die?"
MacDhui, not ungently this time, steered the child toward the door and gave him a farewell pat on the behind. “Off you go, boy. Put it back where you found it. Nature will look after it. Now then, if you like, Mrs. Sanderson—"
2
I f it is family you go by, then you will certainly be impressed with mine, for I am a relative of that Jennie—Jennie Baldrin of Glasgow—about whose life and times and adventures in London, aboard ship and elsewhere, a whole book has been written and published.
We are Edinburgh on one side of my family, several of my forebears not only having been employed at the university in the usual capacity as hunters, but one or two are said to have contributed to scientific knowledge and advance, and Glasgow on the other, the Jennie Baldrin side.
Jennie was my great-aunt and she was most distinguished and Egyptian-looking, with a small, rather narrow head, long muzzle, slanting eyes, and good-sized, rounded, well-upstanding ears, and in this I am said to resemble her closely, though, of course, our coloring is quite different. I mention this with excusable pride, since it shows that we trace our ancestry back to the days when people had the good sense to recognize us as gods.
That false gods are worshiped today—well, more’s the pity, for in Egypt, in the old days when members of our family were venerated in the temples, times were better and people, by and large, seemed happier. That, however, is neither here nor there and does not concern what I have to tell. Yet, if you know that once you were a god, no matter how long ago—well, it is bound to show somewhat in your demeanor.
Nor does Jennie play any part at all in what is to follow, except that I suppose I inherited something of her independence, spunk, and poise, not to mention elegance, and I brought in her name only as a possible point of interest to you should you happen to be familiar with her story.
I, too, have had a most curious adventure and experience, one of the most interesting and marvelous things that ever happened, at least that part which concerns myself.
I will not keep you in suspense. It has to do with a murder.
But what makes this story different from any you ever read is that the one who is murdered is—ME.
The name I bear, Thomasina, came about through one of those ridiculous and inexcusable errors committed by so many people who attempt to determine our sex when we are very young. I was originally christened Thomas when I came to live at the home of the MacDhuis in Glasgow to be the pet of Mary Ruadh, then aged three. When the error became obvious the name was simply feminized to Thomasina by Mrs. McKenzie, our housekeeper, whether I liked it or not and without so much as a by-your-leave.
I do not know why people are quite so stupid at determining our sex when we are young. The difference is easy enough to see if you will just look instead of guess, and take a little trouble, for with boys, things are apart, and with girls they are near together, and that’s the rule, no matter how small they might be.
Mr. Andrew MacDhui might have told at a glance, no doubt, since he was a veterinary surgeon. But he was a most queer man to follow the profession of doctor to animals, since he had little love for and no
The ailing Yorkie was quite near to him and his nostrils, already flaring with disgust of himself and all humanity, caught a whiff of the perfume with which his mistress had scented him. He therefore replied to Geordie McNabb out of the black cloud of anger enveloping him, “I have no time for such foolishness. Cannot you see that I am busy with a room full of people? Go put the frog back by the pond again and leave it be. Off with you now."
Into the dark, round eyes of Geordie came that expression reserved to children who have been hurt by and disappointed in their grownups. “But it’s sick,” he said. “It’s no well. Will he not die?"
MacDhui, not ungently this time, steered the child toward the door and gave him a farewell pat on the behind. “Off you go, boy. Put it back where you found it. Nature will look after it. Now then, if you like, Mrs. Sanderson—"
2
I f it is family you go by, then you will certainly be impressed with mine, for I am a relative of that Jennie—Jennie Baldrin of Glasgow—about whose life and times and adventures in London, aboard ship and elsewhere, a whole book has been written and published.
We are Edinburgh on one side of my family, several of my forebears not only having been employed at the university in the usual capacity as hunters, but one or two are said to have contributed to scientific knowledge and advance, and Glasgow on the other, the Jennie Baldrin side.
Jennie was my great-aunt and she was most distinguished and Egyptian-looking, with a small, rather narrow head, long muzzle, slanting eyes, and good-sized, rounded, well-upstanding ears, and in this I am said to resemble her closely, though, of course, our coloring is quite different. I mention this with excusable pride, since it shows that we trace our ancestry back to the days when people had the good sense to recognize us as gods.
That false gods are worshiped today—well, more’s the pity, for in Egypt, in the old days when members of our family were venerated in the temples, times were better and people, by and large, seemed happier. That, however, is neither here nor there and does not concern what I have to tell. Yet, if you know that once you were a god, no matter how long ago—well, it is bound to show somewhat in your demeanor.
Nor does Jennie play any part at all in what is to follow, except that I suppose I inherited something of her independence, spunk, and poise, not to mention elegance, and I brought in her name only as a possible point of interest to you should you happen to be familiar with her story.
I, too, have had a most curious adventure and experience, one of the most interesting and marvelous things that ever happened, at least that part which concerns myself.
I will not keep you in suspense. It has to do with a murder.
But what makes this story different from any you ever read is that the one who is murdered is—ME.
The name I bear, Thomasina, came about through one of those ridiculous and inexcusable errors committed by so many people who attempt to determine our sex when we are very young. I was originally christened Thomas when I came to live at the home of the MacDhuis in Glasgow to be the pet of Mary Ruadh, then aged three. When the error became obvious the name was simply feminized to Thomasina by Mrs. McKenzie, our housekeeper, whether I liked it or not and without so much as a by-your-leave.
I do not know why people are quite so stupid at determining our sex when we are young. The difference is easy enough to see if you will just look instead of guess, and take a little trouble, for with boys, things are apart, and with girls they are near together, and that’s the rule, no matter how small they might be.
Mr. Andrew MacDhui might have told at a glance, no doubt, since he was a veterinary surgeon. But he was a most queer man to follow the profession of doctor to animals, since he had little love for and no
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