George Weston

“ I cried, as a ray of light suddenly broke upon me, "so that is why Fido sits out on the front piazza!"
"Yes," nodded Alicia, "he's jealous because I have been talking to Philip."
"And that is why Peter sulks on the back porch!"
"Peter's jealous, too," sighed Alicia, "but they'll get over it quickly enough when—Philip—is gone. It seems a shame to kill him," she sighed again, "but I suppose it has to be done."
Inexorably then I lifted the trap from its hook and started for the cellar.
"Don't hurt him too much, Edward," pleaded Alicia. ”

“ I hate flies, of course, but when it comes right down to one little fly, sitting there all by himself, somehow I don't seem to hate him so much. And he is such a nice one."
"Who is?" I asked, beginning to wonder again.
"Our fly," said Alicia, thoughtfully playing with her fork.
"Our fly?" I asked, all at sea for the second time. "Our fly?"
"Yes," said Alicia, "the one in the trap. Come and look at him, Edward."
She cut up a plate of meat for Fido and Peter and put it in the corner of the pantry in its usual place. ”

“ She fetched the steel from the sideboard and sharpened the carving-knife as though she were about to cut a bit of meat. Almost immediately Fido and Peter stalked in, but when they saw that Alicia was (in fact) not cutting any meat, Fido and Peter turned around and stalked out again "like a team" (as Alicia always says) and with so much dignity in the way they held their tails that I felt abashed and ashamed of myself in my own house.
"Edward," said Alicia, looking thoughtfully around the center-piece (after Fido and Peter had left the premises) , "flies are terrible things; aren't they?" ”