“I say th’ same, Missus Muldoon,” said Flannery, “an’ I say th’ professor has done that same, too.  I say he has educated th’ flea, an’ mebby raised it from a baby, and brung it from his native land, mam, an’ taught it, an’ learned t’ love it.  Yes, Missus Muldoon!  But if th’ educated horse or th’ educated pig got loose would they be easy t’ find agin, or would they not, mam?  And if th’ professor come t’ have a’ grrand love for th’ flea he has raised by hand, an’ taught like his own son, an’ th’ flea run off from him, would th’ educated flea be easy t’ find?  Th’ horse an’ th’ pig is animals that is not easy t’ conceal themselves, Missus Muldoon, but th’ flea is harrd t’ find, an’ when ye have found him he is harrd t’ put your thumb on.  I’m thinkin’ th’ reason th’ professor is so down is that he has lost th’ flea of his hearrt.”

“Poor man!” said Mrs. Muldoon.

“An’ th’ reason I’m thinkin’ so,” said Flannery slowly, and leaning toward Mrs. Muldoon across the table, “is that, if I be not mistaken, Missus Muldoon, th’ professor’s educated flea spent last night with Mike Flannery!”

Mrs. Muldoon raised her hands with a gesture of wonderment.

“And listen to that, now!” she cried, in astonishment.  “Mike Flannery, do you be thinkin’ th’ professor has two of them?  Sure, and he must have two of them, for was it not mesilf was thinkin’ all last night I had th’ same educated flea for a bed-felly?  I would have caught him,” she added, sadly, “but he was too brisk for me.”

“There was forty-sivin times I thought I had mine,” admitted Flannery, “but every time whin I took up me thumb he had gone some other place.  But I will have him to-night!”

“But mebby he has gone by now,” said Mrs. Muldoon.

“Never fear, mam,” said Flannery.  “He’s not gone, mam, for he has been close to me every minute of th’ day.  I could put me thumb on him this minute, if he would but wait ’till I did it.”

“Well, as for that, Mike Flannery,” said Mrs. Muldoon, mischievously, as she arose from the table, “go on along with ye, and don’t be bringin’ th’ blush t’ me face, but whin I want t’ find th’ one I was speakin’ of, I won’t have t’ walk away from meself t’ find him this minute!”

The trained flea is one of nature’s marvels.  Everyone says so.  A Bobby Burns might well write a poem on this “wee, timorous, cowerin’ beastie,” except that the flea is not, strictly speaking, timorous or cowering.  A flea, when it is in good health and spirits, will not cower worth a cent.  It has ten times the bravery of a lion—­in fact, one single little flea, alone and unaided, will step right up and attack the noisiest lion, and never brag about it.  A lion is a rank coward in comparison with a flea, for a lion will not attack anything that it has not a good chance of killing, while the humble but daring flea will boldly attack animals it cannot kill, and that it knows it cannot kill.  David