Dear Uncle Smugly,

My trouble all started when Grandma died. It hurt me so for Grandpa not to see her. I remember well (though I was only a little tyke at the time) his last words as he left. "I hope you croak," he cooed broken-heartedly, "and I hope it's me as does it." And then for all these years he's never come back. And Grandma lay there on the bed, snarling so patiently, biting me, biting the doctor, even biting the bedposts for practice. I did so want for Grandpa to come home.

And then there came a time when we knew that Grandma would never see another Spring, never be able to lean out of her sunny window and spit at the children in the park again. She was growing visibly weaker, and began to miss the doctor with the chamber-pot almost every other visit. There was only one bed left in the house. And Grandpa never did come.

The doctor was a great comfort to me when she died. Whenever my courage faltered, or got tired of holding the chloroform bottle, he was always there with a word of encouragement or advice, always helpful, always a perfect gentleman.

And after it was all over, I did as I knew Grandpa would have had me do. And the medical school did pay elegant.

I don't know why I write you all this, but I sure am worried about what to do with the money. If I should spend it Grandpa might come back and get me mixed up with Grandma (he always was kind of absent-minded and I sure would be sorry. You don't know is he dead? Kindly,   Helen Fernal.

Dear Miss Fernal,

If your grandfather is the short, grizzled man with a hare-lip, two glass eyes, and a hook on his right arm, that I am thinking of, you are in for a bad time, as whenever he meets me he mistakes me for an old Model The once had, and tries to turn my motor over with my left leg. Fortunately for you he sees a paper rarely.

By the way, Miss Fernal, do you see your psychiatrist twice a year? Have you seen him recently? Eventually, why not now?   Your   UNCLE SMUGLY.