"I dunno what ails th' professor," said Mrs. Muldoon, one evening when
she and Flannery sat at the table after the rest had left it.

Flannery hesitated.

"I would not like to say for sure, mam," he said, slowly, "but I'm
thinkin' 't is a loss he has had, maybe, that's preyin' on his mind.
Ever since ye told me, Missus Muldoon, that he was a professor of th'
educated fleas, I have had doubts of th' state of th' mind of th'
professor. Th' sense of studyin' th' flea, mam, I can understand, that
bein' th' way all professors does these days, but 't is not human t'
spend time givin' a flea a college education. Th' man that descinds t'
be tutor t' a flea, and t' teach it all th' accomplishments, from
readin' and writin' t' arithmetic and football, mebby, is peculiar. I
will say he is dang peculiar, Missus Muldoon, beggin' your pardon. Is
there any coffee left in the pot, mam?"

"A bit, Mr. Flannery, an' you 're welcome t' it."

"I understand th' feelin' that makes a man educate a horse, like that
Dutchman I was readin' about in th' Sunday paper th' other day," said
Mike, "and teachin' it t' read an' figger, an' all that. An' I can see
th' sinse of educatin' a pig, as has been done, as you well know, mam,
for there be no doubt a man can love a horse or a pig as well as he can
love his own wife--"

"An' why not a flea?" asked Mrs. Muldoon. "'T is natural for an Irishman
t' love a pig, if 't is a pig worth lovin', and 't is natural, I make no
doubt, for a Dutchman t' love a horse th' same way, and each t' his own,
as th' sayin' is. Mebby th' Frinch can learn t' love th' flea in th'