( and What Became of Him )
Lesley Gordon


I knew a boy named WALTER WIGG, about your size— or not so big, who took a quite untold delight in whistling from morn till night. He whistled high, he whistled long, he'd whistle any kind of song; he whistled loud, but worse than that, young WALTER always whistled flat.

He'd whistle at his morning tub, a bar or two between each rub: drowning in song, his parents say, the water as it ran away.

Through summers hot and winters cool twice daily on his way to school, he made the most appalling noise, the envy of the butcher boys.

People had frequently remarked, " How jolly ! " on hearing how the infant WALLY through lack of nourishment grown terse, sat up and whistled for his nurse; but admiration for young WALTER by slow degrees began to falter when day by day and hour by hour this tender babe, the Wiggs's flower, though pink as paint and like to pop, was not prevailed upon to stop. (Investigation since reveals he scarcely even paused for meals.)

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