At breakfast, next morning, it occurred to me that I should like a slice of ham. I said as much to my wife.
"Oh, no, John," she responded, "you shouldn't eat anything so heavy for breakfast."
I insisted.
"The fact is," she said, pensively, "I couldn't have eaten any more of that ham, and so I gave it to Julius."
A Deep Sleeper
It was four o'clock on Sunday afternoon, in the month of July. The air had been hot and sultry, but a light, cool breeze had sprung up, and occasional cirrus clouds overspread the sun, and for a while subdued his fierceness. We were all out on the piazza—as the coolest place we could find—my wife, my sister-in-law and I. The only sounds that broke the Sabbath stillness were the hum of an occasional vagrant bumble-bee, or the fragmentary song of a mocking-bird in a neighboring elm, who lazily trolled a stave of melody, now and then, as a sample of what he could do in the cool of the morning, or after a light shower, when the conditions would be favorable to exertion.
"Annie," said I, "suppose, to relieve the deadly dulness of the afternoon, that we go out and pull the big watermelon, and send for Colonel Pemberton's folks to come over and help us eat it."
"Is it ripe, yet?" she inquired sleepily, brushing away a troublesome fly that had impudently settled on her hair.