out. The doctor was called, and cannily solved the problem with
a buttered shoe-horn. "Muckle-mouthed Meg," he has dubbed the
patient ever since.

You can understand that my thoughts are anxiously occupied in
filling every crevice of Sadie Kate's existence.

There are a million subjects that I ought to consult with the
president about. I think it was very unkind of you and him to
saddle me with your orphan asylum and run off South to play.
It would serve you right if I did everything wrong. While you
are traveling about in private cars, and strolling in the
moonlight on palm beaches, please think of me in the drizzle of a
New York March, taking care of 113 babies that by rights are
yours--and be grateful.

I remain (for a limited time),

S. McBRIDE.


SUP'T JOHN GRIER HOME.
Dear Enemy:

I am sending herewith (under separate cover) Sammy Speir, who got
mislaid when you paid your morning visit. Miss Snaith brought
him to light after you had gone. Please scrutinize his thumb. I
never saw a felon, but I have diagnosed it as such.
Yours truly,
S. McBRIDE.