This all came about because my fireside companion was a born collector.  Not of any reasonable thing like stamps or butterflies, but of stray animals and wandering humans.  Her affections embraced every created thing that came out of the ark, including all the descendants of Mr. and Mrs. Noah.  A choice spot in my beloved garden, which was also Ishi’s heaven, housed a family of weather-beaten world-weary cats, three chattering monkeys, that made love to Jane and hideous faces at everybody else, a parrakeet and a blind pup.  If the collection fell short in quality, it abounded in variety.  On one occasion she brought home two ragged and hungry American sailors, and it required military tactics to piece out the “left-over” lunch for them.  Another time she shared her room with a poor creature who had been a pretty woman, now seeking shelter till her transportation could be secured.

Late one snowy night Jane came stumbling in weighted with an extra bundle.  Tenderly unwrapping the covering she disclosed a half-starved baby.  That day she had gone to a distant part of the city to assist in organizing a soup kitchen, and a Bible class.  On her way home she heard a feeble cry coming from a ditch.  She located a bundle of rags, and found a bit of discarded humanity.

“Isn’t it sweet?” murmured the little missionary as she laid the weakling before the fire and fed it barley water with an ink dropper.  “I’m going to keep it for my very own.  I’ve always wanted one,” she announced joyfully.

“Well, you just won’t do anything of the kind,” was my firm conclusion.  I had no wish to be unkind, but repression was the only course left.  I loved children, as I loved flowers, but it was impossible to inflate another figure for expense.

“It’s all we can do to support that menagerie in the garden without starting an orphan asylum.  Babies, as well as cats and dogs, cost money.”

“Yes, yes, I know, Miss Jenkins,” replied my companion eagerly, her face bright with some inner sunbeam of hope, “but wait till I tell you of a darling plan.  The other day I saw the nicest sign over a door.  It said ‘Moderated and modified milk for babies and small animals.’  It’s tin, the milk I mean, and that is what I am going to feed them on.  It’s so filling.”

“Beautifully simple, and tin milk must be so nourishing, is it not?” I snapped, ruffled by Miss Gray’s never-defeated hopefulness.  “Of course the kind gentleman who keeps this magic food, stands at the door and hands it out by the bucketful.”

That was before I learned that sarcasm could no more pierce Jane’s optimism, than a hair would cut a diamond.

“No,” she answered sweetly, “he sits on the floor, and takes cans from a box.  He gets money for it, but I am going to make a grand bargain with him.  I am going to trade him a package of tracts and that cunning parrakeet for milk.”

“How do you know he wants parrots or tracts?” I said.