arms (The Seraph wrapped his in the skirt of his fresh holland smock) and sit blissfully in a row.
We stroked the soft licked fur of their glossy coats; we examined their tiny sharp black nails; their blindness only endeared them the more to us.
There we were found by Mr. Watlin.
"'Ere's a picnic," he said. "'Ere's a bloomin' picnic." He caught up the nearest puppy, and turned it over in an experienced hand. "Tiles must be cut," he added.
"Tails cut! Oh, no," I expostulated, "Giftie's tail isn't cut. Please don't."
"All terriers should 'ave their tiles cut," said Mr. Watlin, firmly. "If the mother dog's tile isn't cut, is that any reason w'y 'er hoffspring should be disfigured in a like manner? Now's the time."
"But it'll hurt," pleaded The Seraph. Do you do it wif a knife?"
"I bites 'em orf," replied Mr. Watlin, laconically, "an' it don't 'urt a bit."
"In this world," he went on, "a lot depends on the way you does a thing. F'rinstance, when I kill a lamb or a steer, do I kill 'im brutally? Not at all. I runs 'im up an' down the slaughter yard to get 'is circulation up—I strokes 'im on the neck, an' tells 'im wot a fine feller 'e is, till 'e's in such
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