Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio, series one (Auburn: Derby & Miller, 1853)
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THE QUIET MR. SMITH.
"What a quiet man your husband is, Mrs. Smith!"
Quiet! a snail is "an express train" to him! If the top of his house should blow off, he'd just sit still and spread his umbrella! He's a regular pussy-cat. Comes into the front door as though the entry was paved with eggs, and sits down in his chair as if there was a nest of kittens under the cushion. He'll be the death of me yet! I read him all the horrid accidents, dreadful collisions, murders and explosions, and he takes it just as easy as if I was saying the Ten Commandments. He is never astonished, or startled, or delighted. If a cannon-ball should come through that window, he would n't move an eye-lash. If I should make the voyage of the world, and return some fine day, he'd take off his spectacles, put them in the case, fold up the newspaper and settle his dickey, before he'd be ready to say, "Good morning, Mrs. Smith." If he'd been born of a poppy he could n't be more soporific. I wonder if all the Smiths are like him. When Adam got tired of naming his numerous descendants, he said, "Let all the rest be called Smith!" Well, I don't care for that, but he ought to
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have known better than to call my husband Abel Smith! Do you suppose, if I were a man, I would let a woman support me? Where do you think Abel's coats and cravats, and canes and cigars come from? Out of my brain! "Quiet?"--it's perfectly refreshing to me to hear of a comet, or see a locomotive, or look at a streak of chain lighting! I tell you he is the expressed essence of chloroform!
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PRUDENCE PRIM.
I don't know about this being "a very nice world," said Aunt Sally. There's people enough in it, such as they are; and enough of them if they can't be any better; but if there's one kind that I can't get along with, it is the hypocrites! Now, when anybody swears, or steals, or cuts another's throat, I understand it; I know--on the spot--which commandment has been tripped over; but these two-faced, oily-tongued people, who twist, and turn, and double, like rabbits in a wood, why, it needs a gun that will shoot round a corner to hit them, and somebody that is deeper than I to see through them. How exactly they will mark out the path of duty for other people's feet to tread! What magnifying glasses they wear to look at other people's sins, and how very good they are till their principles conflict with their interest!
Prudence Prim was of this order. How careful and conscientious she was to admit the right sort of toys into her shop for the children! All the drummers, and fifers, and "sojers," underwent an anatomical examination before they stood up in her shop-window; all the little sixpenny
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cotton handkerchiefs had hymns and creeds printed on them, and "golden rules," and all that sort of thing. To be sure, Prudence sometimes gave them the wrong change; but I've known that done in other places than Primtown! Be that as it may, she reigned there "triumphant, happy and glorious," with an undisputed monopoly of juvenile coppers, till "eleven-foot" came, at last, in the shape of Miss Giggle and a rival toy-shop! Prudence watched her with a jealous eye; and, finally, thought it her "duty" to remonstrate against the Fanny Elssler dolls she was exhibiting in her shop-window. They were "frivolous" and "improper," and she was astonished Miss Giggle "could let herself down so!" The little folks were of a different opinion, and coaxed papas and mammas into the same belief. Coppers changed hands, and flew with astonishing celerity into the Giggle treasury. Mirth went ahead of melancholy, till Prudence could stand it no longer; but took a darling leap over her "principles" for the sake of interest, and Fanny Elssler dolls were forthwith seen kicking up their unrebuked heels in Miss Prim's shop-window! "This would be a dull world without laughing!" she said, apologetically!
Never mind, Aunt Prudence; we won't inquire too particularly into the date of that newborn opinion! You are not the only specimen extant of an iron creed, and an India-rubber conscience!
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MEN'S DICKEYS NEVER FIT EXACTLY.
Now that must be a mistake! Husbands don't bring home a "new dickey pattern," or a "French fit," oftener than seven days out of a week,--I'm sure of it! You never saw one sit down with a dozen sheets of paper in his lap, take up your scissors,--looking as wise as Diogenes,--and after wasting any quantity of paper, and making as much litter on the parlor carpet as a carpenter with his chips, hand you a nondescript-looking thing, saying, "Now, Susan--if--you--make--those--dickeys--exactly--like--that--pattern (?), you'll hit it." Well, with a solemn sense of the responsibility of the undertaking, "Susan" does as she is bid,--former experience, however, making her rather more skeptical than Diogenes about the "hit!" The dickey is done; washed, starched, sprinkled, ironed and put on. In about an hour, Diogenes comes tearing back from the office to say that "Tom Smith's dickey is a little lower in front, and a little higher behind, and a little more hollowed out in the sides, and has two rows of stitching, and fastens before instead of behind, and if Susan will make these little alterations it will suit him, and no mistake!"
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A LITTLE BUNKER HILL.
"No person should be delicate about asking for what is properly his due. If he neglects doing so, he is deficient in that spirit of independence which he should observe in all his actions. Rights are rights, and, if not granted, should be demanded."
A little "Bunker Hill" atmosphere about that! It suits my republicanism; but I hope no female sister will be such a novice as to suppose it refers to any but masculine rights. In the first place, my dear woman, "female rights" is debatable ground; what you may call a "vexed question." In the next place (just put your ear down, a little nearer), granted we had "rights," the more we "demand," the more we shan't get them. I've been converted to that faith this some times. No sort of use to waste lungs and leather trotting to SIGH-racuse about it. The instant the subject is mentioned, the lords of creation are up and dressed; guns and bayonets the order of the day; no surrender on every flag that floats! The only way left is to pursue the "Uriah Heep" policy; look 'umble, and be desperate cunning. Bait them with submission, and then throw the noose over the will. Appear not to have any choice, and as true as gospel
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you'll get it. Ask their advice, and they'll be sure to follow yours. Look one way, and pull another! Make your reins of silk, keep out of sight, and drive where you like!
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SOLILOQUY OF REV. MR. PARISH.
"I've really an intolerable pain in my chest, sitting here in my study so long. I should like to work a little in my garden; but Deacon Smith thinks 'it looks too secular.' Brother Clapp has offered me his horse and chaise; but Deacon Smith says
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people will talk, if I ride about. Well, I'll take a walk with my wife,--I suppose I can do that. Here's a hole in my coat;--it's all holes. I wonder where that new one is which wife's father sent me. O, I recollect, Deacon Smith says it will cause heart-burnings in the church if I wear so fine a broadcloth. Well, I'll go in my old one. No, I can't either; Deacon Smith says it's a reflection on the parish for me to go out in an old coat. I wish my people would pay me the last two quarters' salary;--think I'll write, and tell them how closely I'm cornered. No, it won't do; Deacon Smith says if there's anything that deserves a rebuke, it's a minister who thinks about money. I wonder how long I had better make my sermon next Sabbath. Brother Jones says half an hour; Brother Clapp three quarters, and Deacon Smith says they don't get their money's worth if 't is short of an hour long. Brother Jones is a temperance man--Brother Clapp is n't;--Brother Harris is an abolitionist--Deacon Smith says he's anti-fuss! and wants the world to go on the old-fashioned way!
Wife has just been in, and wants to know "if John may go a fishing;" but Deacon Smith says minister's boys never ought to be born with the bump of destruction. Little Susy wants a doll; but Deacon Smith says it's too much like worshipping wooden idols, forbid in the Scriptures! My wife is worn out, and needs a servant; but Deacon Smith says ministers' wives should never be weary in well-doing. Wife's sister made me a present of a book-mark for the pulpit Bible, in the form of a cross; Deacon Smith says "it's a rag of popery!"--Mem. To have it removed before next Sunday. I should like to change with Brother Putnam; but Deacon Smith says he has never made it quite clear, to his mind, whether little babies are admitted to heaven at nine months and two days, or two months and nine days!-- Brother Hill, too, is a very good man, but Deacon Smith says he ought never to have entered the ministry if he could n't get the curl out of his hair! Really, I'm quite puzzled to find out the path of duty!"
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TIM TREADWELL.
Never saw Tim Treadwell? I am astonished! Well, he bore a striking resemblance to a pair of rusty tongs in locomotion. His bow was a cross between a St. Vitus shake and a galvanic spasm. It was edifying to see him go over the ground, with so little superfluous play of limb or muscle; coat, vest, dickey and pants, all in unyielding harness. Tim had a realizing sense of the value of the dimes and dollars his Benedict foresight had accumulated, and poised every ninepence long and affectionately on his forefinger before committing it to the tender mercies of this horse-leech world. It mattered little to him how narrow was the door of humiliation through which he crawled to get a step higher on this world's ladder; he was perfectly contented to play lackey, for the time being, to any pompous aristocrat who would condescend to notice him in public next time they met. But what was very astonishing (notwithstanding, Tim owned a looking-glass), he labored under the hallucination that every woman he met was plotting against his single-blessedness. He read a story once, in an old-fashioned book, in which "Delilah" figured very con-
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spicuously; and, though it would have been a puzzle to Solomon, where Tim's "great strength" lay, he had a mortal and daily horror of being "Samson"-ized. Not that he lacked appreciation of a pretty face or form, but he considered it safer to admire at a distance, and never passed a widow without an involuntary "pater noster." There were other safe and innocent amusements which he did n't feel called upon to deny himself. For instance, he had the scent of a pointer for partridges and woodcock, and ever failed to call in, by accident, when they were served up at a cozy little family supper, or when a birthday was gastronomically celebrated. He had a taste for music, too, and might be seen, solus, at all the concerts, taking a free gratis opera-glass scrutiny of the pretty women whose company other Benedicts considered cheaply purchased at the tune of a bouquet, a carriage, and a three-dollar seat. Tim never was known to make but one female call, and then he took his friend, Harry Smith, along, to neutralize the force of the compliment. He was fully persuaded that the ladies were ready to drop into his mouth like so many ripe peaches; but he had no idea,--not he!--of shaking the matrimonial tree! The greatest proof on record of his extraordinary sagacity was the delightful feeling of safety which came over him, in the company of a married lady. Poor Tim! Profound Tim! Requiescat in pace!
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IMPORTANT FOR MARRIED MEN.
"The Budget says, that a lady lost the use of her tongue for nearly a week the other day, from eating too many tomatoes. The price of this indispensable vegetable will, no doubt, rise in consequence."
No it won't! There is nothing in this world--with one exception--that gentlemen love so well as to hear women talk to each other. You are sitting tete-a-tete with Moses, at your domestic fireside. A lady friend comes in; she is bright, and witty, and agreeable. You have both a tremendous budget of feminine "bon mots" and good things to share with each other. The question is, how to get rid of Moses. You hint that there is a great political meeting at Tammany Hall, on which occasion Cass, or whoever is god of your husband's political idolatry, is going to speak. He don't stir a peg. Then you adroitly raise the window-curtain, and speak of the beauty of the night, and how many gentlemen are out with cigars in their mouths. It don't "end in--smoke!" Then you ask him "if he has carried the morning's paper over to his mother?" He is as deaf as a "post!" Finally, in despair, you get into the remotest
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corner of the room, and commence operations, leaving Moses to his corner and his book, for fear of disturbing (?) him.
Kitty tells you a most excruciating story, and you tell her another; and you laugh till the tears start. Well, now you just creep slily round Moses' chair, and take a peep at him. St. Cecilia! if that book is not upside down, and his mouth stretched from ear to ear! He has swallowed every word with the avidity of a cat over her first mouse banquet; and yet, if you did not face him up with that upside down book, he would persist he had been reading the funniest book alive! And so he has, but it was not bound in "calf" or "sheep-skin!"
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MR. CLAPP'S SOLILOQUY.
Another girl! What can Mrs. Clapp be thinking of? It's perfectly ridiculous! There's four of them now, and that's four more than is necessary. I don't believe in girls,--lovers and laces, ringlets and romances, jewelry and jump-ropes, silks and satins. What's to be done? There's a whole chest full of my old coats I've been saving to make my boys' jackets. I wish Mrs. Clapp would think as I do. Another girl! Who's to keep the name in the family, I'd like to know? I shall be extinct! And now she wants me to put up a note in the church for "blessings received!"
Mrs. Clapp has a very obstinate streak in her disposition in this respect. It's wasting powder to reason with her. It seems to go into one ear and out at the other. If she gets going on one particular track, you may just fold your arms and let her take her time to get off it. She knows I prefer boys,--that woman does,--just as well as she knows her name is Hetty. Well, there's a limit to human patience. I shall tell her, very decidedly, as soon as her gruel-probation is over, that a stop must be put to this. It's no use for a man to pretend to be master in his own house, when he is n't!
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WHAT MRS. SMITH SAID.
"Saint Agatha!--not been out of the city this summer?"
"No;--Mr. Jones said he could n't afford it."
"My dear, innocent Abigail! Mr. Jones smokes his forty-nine cigars a day, as usual, don't he?"
"Yes."
"Well, he rides horseback every morning?"
"Yes."
"Well, he plays billiards, and takes his sherry and hock, and all that sort o' thing down town, don't he?"
"Yes."
"Well, put that and that together! Just so Mr. Smith told me--'could n't afford it.' I did n't dispute the point. It was too much trouble. I smiled just as sweetly at him as if I did n't know it was all a humbug. But I very quietly went to my boudoir, and dispatched a note to that jewel of a doctor, ----, saying that I should be taken violently ill about the time Mr. Smith came home to dinner, and should n't probably recover till after a trip to Saratoga, or Niagara, or some of those quiet places. Well, he is as keen as a briar; and when Mr. Smith sent for him, he came in and found me in a state of foreor-
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dained exhaustion, in the hands of my maid, Libby. He felt my pulse, looked wise and oracular, and said I 'must have instant change of air.' Of course I objected; declared I never could bear to be moved; was quite entirely run down, etc. Doctor said he 'would n't be answerable for the consequences,' and finally, to oblige Mr. Smith, I gave in. Understand? Nothing like a little diplomacy. Always use the check-rein, my dear, if you want to start Jones off in a new direction. Men are little contrary, that's all. They'd be perfect treasures, every mother's son of them, if it was n't for that!"
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EVERYBODY'S VACATION EXCEPT EDITORS'.
"Everybody is having a vacation except editors."
I should like to have the editor who wrote that, look me in the face, answer the following "catechize," and then dare whine after that fashion! Who gets tickets to all the Siamese boys, fat girls, white negroes, learned pigs, whistling canaries, circuses, concerts and theatres? Who has a free pass to railroad celebrations, water excursions, balloon ascensions, anti-slavery fights, Webster dinners, Kossuth suppers, and "great rejection" meetings? Who has the first great squash of the season? Who feeds on anonymous pears and nectarines, strawberries, grapes, peaches and melons? Who gets a slice of wedding-cake every time a couple make fools of themselves, and who had "pi" in his office, year in and year out? Who has all the big and lesser literary lights, male and female, constantly revolving round him? Who amasses a magnificent library, free gratis for nothing,--save a puff or two? Who gets pretty bouquets when he
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is sick, from his lady contributors? "Vacation!" forsooth! Don't talk to me! I know all about it! The first gentleman I ever saw was "an editor." I have been acquainted with them ever since I was knee high to a huckleberry!
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OLD JEREMIAH.
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OLD JEREMIAH;
OR, SUNNY DAYS.
It was a sultry morning in August when I first halted under the shade of Jeremiah Crispin's old sycamore trees. Bless the old house, with its red eaves, and the little shoe-maker's shop adjoining, where for many a long year he had hammered away at his lap-stone, at peace with all mankind! His wife slept quietly in the moss-grown church-yard nearby; and Jeremiah and his daughter Xantippe were sole tenants of the red-eaved house. I beg pardon of Miss Xantippe, for allowing her father to precede her! It is a sin I should not dare to be guilty of, were there not a good twenty miles between us; for, truth to tell, the old man's shop was the only place where he could reign unmolested by petticoat government. Dear old Jeremiah! When the house was too hot for us, what an ark of refuge was the old shop; and what cozy talks we used to have over that old lap-stone! With what native politeness he would clear a place for me to sit beside him, where "my dress should not be soiled!" What long, wonderful stories I used to hear about "the Brit-
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ish;" and how skilfully he wove "a moral" into the warp and woof of his narrative! How many sermons in disguise did I voraciously swallow! and how sorry we were when Xantippe's shrill voice called us in "to supper!" With what a sublime unconsciousness of "outward appearances" did Jeremiah, in his leather apron and rolled-up shirt-sleeves, grasp the back of the rude chair, with his toil-worn hands, and say "grace,"--travelling over the world, never forgetting a tribe or nation that the sun shone upon,--embracing Jew and Hottentot, black and white, in the open arms of his Christian philanthropy,--to the manifest discomfort of the carnal-minded hens and chickens, under the table, who were impatiently waiting for their share of the loaves and fishes! How patiently he listened, for the five hundred and fortieth time, to Xantippe's account of the obstreperous conduct of old Brindle in "kicking over the milk-pail;" and of the ingratitude of the hens, who persisted in laying Jeremiah eggs in neighbor Hiram Smith's barn! How uncomplainingly he crumbed Xantippe's sour bread--manufactured simultaneously with the perusal of "The Young Woman's Guide"--into his scanty allowance of milk! How circumspectly he set the four legs of that chair down in its appropriate corner! How many impromptu errands he got up to the village, after sundown, for "leather" and "meal," (?) as much to my delight, as to the astonishment and indignation of the asthmatic old horse, who
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had a way of his own remonstrating, by quietly standing still every three paces, until reminded by the whip, that--when Xantippe was not present--Jeremiah held the reins! What sweet mouthfuls of berries and pretty bunches of flowers found their way into the wagon, never forgetting the mullein stalk and elder blow, to stow away under the seat as a propitiatory "olive branch" to Miss Xantippe! How many nights I have been lulled to sleep with the song of "happy Canaan," issuing from the old raftered chamber across the entry! How many mornings, with the first golden sunbeams, has come to my ear the tremulous voice of old Jeremiah, "wrestling" like the angel at "day-break," for a blessing!
God be thanked,--in this day of many creeds, of intolerance, and sham piety,--these memories sweep over my soul's dark hours, soothing as the sweet music of David's harp to Saul's chafed spirit.
Jeremiah's simple, unpretending piety, and childlike trust and love, chase away every shadow of unbelief, and again I am a guileless child, listening with round-eyed wonder to lessons of wisdom,--then but half understood,--from the silver-haired patriarch, over the old lap-stone.
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"I CAN'T."
Apollo!--what a face! Doleful as a hearse; folded hands; hollow chest; whining voice; the very picture of cowardly irresolution. Spring to your feet, hold up your head, set your teeth together, draw that fine form of yours up to the height that God made it; draw an immense long breath, and look about you. What do you see? Why, all creation taking care of number one;--pushing ahead like the car of Juggernaut, over live victims. There it is; and you can't help it. Are you going to lie down and be crushed?
By all that is manly, no!--dash ahead! You have as good a right to mount the triumphal car as your neighbor. Snap your fingers at croakers. If you can't get round a stump, leap over it, high and dry. Have nerves of steel, a will of iron. Never mind sideaches, or heartaches, or headaches,--dig away without stopping to breathe, or to notice envy or malice. Set your target in the clouds, and aim at it. If your arrow falls short of the mark, what of that? Pick it up and go at it again. If you should never reach it, you will shoot higher than if you only aimed at a bush. Don't whine, if your friends
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fall off. At the first stroke of good luck, by Mammon! they will swarm around you like a hive of bees, till you are disgusted with human nature.
"I can't!" O, pshaw! I throw my glove in your face, if I am a woman! You are a disgrace to corduroys. What! a man lack courage? A man want independence? A man to be discouraged at obstacles? A man afraid to face anything on earth, save his Maker? Why! I have the most unmitigated contempt for you, you will pusillanimous pussy-cat! There is nothing manly about you, except your whiskers.
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A CHAPTER ON CLERGYMEN.
O, walk in, Mr. Jones, walk in! A minister's time is not of much account. He ought to expect to be always ready to see his parishioners. What's the use of having a minister, if you can't use him? Never mind scattering his thoughts to the four winds, just as he gets them glowingly concentrated on some sublime subject,--that is a trifle. He has been through college, has n't he? Then he ought to know a thing or two, and be able to take up the thread of his argument where he laid it down; else where is the astonishing difference between him and a layman? If he can't make a practical use of his Greek and Latin and Theology, he had better strip off his black coat, unshake his "right hand of fellowship," and throw up his commission. Take a seat, Mr. Jones. Talk to him about your crops; --make him plough over a dozen imaginary fields with you; he ought to be able to make a quick transit from "predestination" to potatoes. Why, just think of the man's salary,--and you helping to pay it! Nebuchadnezzar!--have you not hired him, soul and body? He don't belong to himself at all, except when he is asleep. Mind
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and give him a little wholesome advice before you leave. Inquire how many pounds of tea he uses per week, and ask him how he came to be so unclerical as to take a ride on horseback the other day;--and how much the hostler charged him for the animal; and whether he went on a gallop, or a canter, or an orthodox trot? Let him know, very decidedly, that ministers are not expected to have nerves, or headaches, or sideaches, or heartaches. If they are weary writing,--which they have no right to be,--let them go down cellar and chop wood. As to relaxation, suggestive of beautiful thoughts, which a gallop on a fleet horse through the country might furnish,--where the sweet air fans the aching temples caressingly; where fields of golden grain wave in the glad sunlight; where the blended beauty of sky and sea, and rock, and river, hill and valley, send a thrill of pleasure through every inlet of the soul,--pshaw! that is all transcendental nonsense, fit only for green boarding-school girls and silly, scribbling women. A minister ought to be above such things, and have a heart as tough as the doctrine of election. He ought to be a regular theological sledge-hammer, always sharpened up, and ready to do execution without any unnecessary glitter.
The fact is, Mr. Jones,--between you and me and the vestry door,--it is lucky there are some philanthropic layman, like yourself, who are willing to look after
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these ministers. It is the more generous in you, because we are all aware it is a thing you don't take the slightest pleasure in doing (?). You may not get your reward for it in this world, but if you don't in the next, I shall make up my mind that Lucifer is remiss in his duty.
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UNCLE JABE.
"I've always noticed," said Uncle Jabe, "that the man who speaks disrespectfully of a woman, is very apt to be an unmitigated scoundrel."
Softly, softly, Uncle Jabe! Mind whose toes you tread on; you may make them hobble. What's the use of being a man if you can't say just what you like? It's a pantaloons' perquisite. Out with it, either by word of mouth or in print; free your manly bosom!
If you know a literary lady who prefers a quiet life to notoriety, don't let any scruples prevent you from intruding on that privacy. Trot her out before a gaping public. Notice her fine personal points, with the same free and easy familiarity that you would if speaking of a well-formed horse or pointer. Mention her in a dashing, insolent vein of admiration, as if it were something she was more likely to elicit than respect.
Advise everybody to cultivate her delightful and fascinating acquaintance as intimately as you have (?), if he can! Not a bad idea, you see, of advertising yourself, by hitching on to her literary apron-string, especially when your own ascension-robe has been tediously long in making.
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Don't be afraid of consequences. You know you can say a thousand things about a bonnet, that would not be quite safe to say about a hat. Immense advantage that, to a gentleman (?) of weak nerves and courage! The most a woman can do is to turn the "cold shoulder" to you, and that don't begin to hurt like a cold bullet!
Imitate your type,--the highwayman,--who, when requested by the lady he was robbing to desist, "as she was alone and defenseless," replied, with a grin, "That's the very reason why I do it!"
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AN INTERESTING HUSBAND.
"If you could see my husband, Solomon Stillweather! It is my firm conviction, he will be the death of me! I am naturally a happy, bright, energetic, warm-hearted, chain-lightning, impulsive woman,--born after stages were exploded, and in the days of railroads and steam engines. I have the most capacious heart that ever thumped against a silken bodice;--can hate like Lucifer, and love in proportion, and be eternally grateful to one who is kind to me. Now, S-o-l-o-m-o-n is a perpetual calm. Nothing ruffles him, nothing disturbs him. Mount Vesuvius could n't make him hurry. He does everything,--mercantile and matrimonial,--by rule, square and compass. When the proper time arrives, it 'comes off,' and it don't a fraction of a second before. Were the house on fire, he would stop to take the lint off his coat, and brush his teeth, before starting. If I ask him a question at breakfast, I never get an answer before tea. He walks around the house with a noiseless, velvety tread, like a superannuated pussy-cat. Should the children in their play knock
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over the tea-table and its contents, he looks quietly up from his book, and drawls out, 'A-i-n-'t y-o-u r-a-t-h-e-r r-u-d-e, c-h-i-l-d-r-e-n?'
"One summer evening, in the country, as he sat on the grass, smoking his cigar, it occurred to me whether anything short of an earthquake would start him up; so I placed a string of crackers directly behind him, and touched 'em off; and, as sure as I'm a living woman, he never so much as winked.
"You should see him getting ready for church on Sunday, as he pares and polishes his fingernails, lays every hair on his head over its appropriate bump, sprinkles a drop of cologne on the north-west corner of his pocket handkerchief, and ties the bow of that cravat for the for-tieth time. I never saw Solomon excited. I never heard him laugh;--and he don't know the luxury of tears. Now, if I could only get up a domestic squabble!--thunder clouds clear the atmosphere, you know,--but it's no use. I've tried to stir him up on politics; but he's 'on the fence,'--had as lief jump one way as another, too. I've put on the sulks, and been distant and dignified; I tell you, he likes it,--besides, you could n't freeze him colder than he is. I've been loving, and petted him; it's a waste of ammunition,--he can't be thawed out!
"It's my solemn belief, he was originally intended
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for an old maid, but, by some horrid mistake--he's my husband. I can double Cape Horn while he is saying, 'My dear.' O--O! when the Coroner's Jury sits on me, won't the verdict be,--'Died of excess of Still-weather?'"