The Fiends Delight | Page 5

the candle of the
waking housewife had burned low down to the socket, and the wasted
flame on the hearth was expiring bluely in convulsive leaps, the head of
the family resumed: "Jane, who said anything about boots?"
There was no reply. Apparently none was expected, for the man
immediately rose, lengthened himself out like a telescope, and
continued: "Jane, I must have smothered that brat, and I'm 'fernal
sorry!"
"What brat?" asked the wife, becoming interested.
"Why, ours-our little Isaac. I saw you put 'im in bed last week, and I've
been layin' right onto 'im!"
"What under the sun do you mean?" asked the good wife; "we haven't
any brat, and never had, and his name should not be Isaac if we had. I

believe you are crazy."
The man balanced his bulk rather unsteadily, looked hard into the eyes
of his companion, and triumphantly emitted the following conundrum:
"Jane, look-a-here! If we haven't any brat, what'n thunder's the use o'
bein' married!"
Pending the solution of the momentous problem, its author went out
and searched the night for a whisky-skin.

The Heels of Her.

Passing down Commercial-street one fine day, I observed a lady
standing alone in the middle of the sidewalk, with no obvious business
there, but with apparently no intention of going on. She was outwardly
very calm, and seemed at first glance to be lost in some serene
philosophical meditation. A closer examination, however, revealed a
peculiar restlessness of attitude, and a barely noticeable uneasiness of
expression. The conviction came upon me that the lady was in distress,
and as delicately as possible I inquired of her if such were not the case,
intimating at the same time that I should esteem it a great favour to be
permitted to do something. The lady smiled blandly and replied that she
was merely waiting for a gentleman. It was tolerably evident that I was
not required, and with a stammered apology I hastened away, passed
clear around the block, came up behind her, and took up a position on a
dry-goods box; it lacked an hour to dinner time, and I had leisure. The
lady maintained her attitude, but with momently increasing impatience,
which found expression in singular wave-like undulations of her lithe
figure, and an occasional unmistakeable contortion. Several gentlemen
approached, but were successively and politely dismissed. Suddenly
she experienced a quick convulsion, strode sharply forward one step,
stopped short, had another convulsion, and walked rapidly away.
Approaching the spot I found a small iron grating in the sidewalk, and
between the bars two little boot heels, riven from their kindred soles,
and unsightly with snaggy nails.

Heaven only knows why that entrapped female had declined the
proffered assistance of her species-why she had elected to ruin her
boots in preference to having them removed from her feet. Upon that
day when the grave shall give up its dead, and the secrets of all hearts
shall be revealed, I shall know all about it; but I want to know now. A
Tale of Two Feet.
My friend Zacharias was accustomed to sleep with a heated stone at his
feet; for the feet of Mr. Zacharias were as the feet of the dead. One
night he retired as usual, and it chanced that he awoke some hours
afterwards with a well-defined smell of burning leather, making it
pleasant for his nostrils.
"Mrs. Zacharias," said he, nudging his snoring spouse, "I wish you
would get up and look about. I think one of the children must have
fallen into the fire."
The lady, who from habit had her own feet stowed comfortably away
against the warm stomach of her lord and master, declined to make the
investigation demanded, and resumed the nocturnal melody. Mr.
Zacharias was angered; for the first time since she had sworn to love,
honour, and obey, this female was in open rebellion. He decided upon
prompt and vigorous action. He quietly moved over to the back side of
the bed and braced his shoulders against the wall. Drawing up his
sinewy knees to a level with his breast, he placed the soles of his feet
broadly against the back of the insurgent, with the design of propelling
her against the opposite wall. There was a strangled snort, then a shriek
of female agony, and the neighbours came in.
Mutual explanations followed, and Mr. Zacharias walked the streets of
Grass Valley next day as if he were treading upon eggs worth a dollar a
dozen. The Scolliver Pig.
One of Thomas Jefferson's maxims is as follows: "When angry, count
ten before you speak; if very angry, count a hundred." I once knew a
man to square his conduct by this rule, with a most gratifying result.
Jacob Scolliver, a man prone to bad