w peering into my eyes, again holding a tube aloft in the bright electric light of his laboratory, I saw the stork follow him, sit at his feet, flap noiseless wings or prepare for some wild flight that was never even attempted.
"There is no organic disorder," was Thorburn's report at last. "I see no evidence yet of the presence of any infection. I can let you know definitely in a week."
The stork, invisible to Thorburn, eyed me gravely as I took my leave. In much perplexity I walked slowly to my home, letting myself in with my own key and repairing to my study with a profound problem on my mind. The first thing was to find Philander. He had a trick of fashioning a nest for himself out of old newspapers under a corner of my desk. I called him by name.
There was no response. At first I suspected him of hiding from me by design, a thing he was very prone to when he feared being shut up in his cage for the night. He had a great affection for the chimney. The soot in that retreat begrimed his
An attempt to explain mysticism as a biological illness. Actually, not a bad story about a psychiatrist who rescues a newborn, golden, rat. The rat becomes his pet, and he starts to see things around his patients. Sort of like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Ezekiel. An amusing idea.
You have a rat with golden fur, as a pet.
You start to feel funny and see unusual things.
Your pet has golden flees. Does he carry golden microbes?
If so, what then?