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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
16
At
length,
after
a
month
of
agony,
on
the
last
day
of
his
vacation,
he
passed
away.
They
say
that
when
the
last
moment
came,
he
sat
up
in
bed
with
a
beautiful
smile
of
confidence
playing
upon
his
face,
and
said,
"Well--the
angels
are
calling
me;
I'm
afraid
I
really
must
go
now.
Good
afternoon."
And
the
rushing
of
his
spirit
from
its
prison-house
was
as
rapid
as
a
hunted
cat
passing
over
a
garden
fence.
A
Christmas
Letter
(In
answer
to
a
young
lady
who
has
sent
an
invitation
to
be
present
at
a
children's
party)
Mademoiselle,
Allow
me
very
gratefully
but
firmly
to
refuse
your
kind
invitation.
You
doubtless
mean
well;
but
your
ideas
are
unhappily
mistaken.
Let
us
understand
one
another
once
and
for
all.
I
cannot
at
my
mature
age
participate
in
the
sports
of
children
with
such
abandon
as
I
could
wish.
I
entertain,
and
have
always
entertained,
the
sincerest
regard
for
such
games
as
Hunt-the-Slipper
and
Blind-Man's
Buff.
But
I
have
now
reached
a
time
of
life,
when,
to
have
my
eyes
blindfolded
and
to
have
a
powerful
boy
of
ten
hit
me
in
the
back
with
a
hobby-horse
and
ask
me
to
guess
who
hit
me,
provokes
me
to
a
fit
of
retaliation
which
could
only
culminate
in
reckless
criminality.
Nor
can
I
cover
my
shoulders
with
a
drawing-room
rug
and
crawl
round
on
my
hands
and
knees
under
the
pretence
that
I
am
a
bear
without
a
sense
of
personal
insufficiency,
which
is
painful
to
me.
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