y. Brother and sister would be left far behind, or mebbe get
stacked up and discouraged or sprained for the day. The old dame said it
was disheartening, indeed, trying to make companions of one's children
when they showed such a low order of intelligence for it. Still, she was
fair-minded; so she had a golf links made, and put 'em at that. She
wouldn't play herself, saying it was an effeminate game, good for fat
old men or schoolboys, but mebbe her chits would benefit by it and get a
taste for proper sports, where you can break a bone now and then by not
using care.

"But golf wasn't much better. Sister would carry a book of poetry with
her and read it as she loafed from one hit to another. The old lady near
shed tears at the sight. And brother was about as bad, getting
hypnotized by passing insect life and forgetting his score while
prodding some new kind of bug.

"The old lady said I'd never believe what a care and responsibility
children was. She had wanted 'em to go in for ranching and be awfully
keen about it, and look how they acted! Still, she wouldn't give up. She
suggested polo next; but sister said it wasn't a lady's game, making no
demand upon the higher attributes of womanhood, and brother said he
might go in for it if she'd let him play his on a bicycle, as being more
reliable or stauncher than a pony.

"So she throws up her hands in despair, but thinks hard again; and at
last she says she has the right sport for 'em and why didn't she think
of it before! This new idea is to bring up her pack of prize-winning
beagles, the sport being full of excitement, and yet safe enough for all
concerned if they'll look where they walk and not stop to read slushy
poems or collect insect life. Sister and brother said beagles, by all
means, like drowning sailors clutching at a straw or something; and the
old lady sent off a telegram.

"I admit I didn't know what kind of a game beagles was, but I didn't
betray the fact when she told me about it. I was over to Egbert Floud's
place next day and I asked him. But he didn't know and he couldn't even
get the name right. He says: 'You mean beetles.' I says, 'Not at all';
that it's beagles. Then he says I must of got the name twisted, and
probably it's one of these curly horns. That's as close as he ever did
come to the name; and until he actually saw the things he insisted they
was either something to blow on or something that crawled. 'Mark my
words,' he says,'they're either