The majority of English women are dowdies, and by the way they have immense feet and hands. They are excellent wives, mothers and sisters, but their extremities are something frightful. They do have delightful complexions though, and are as bright and good as they can be.
A PITTSBURGH REMINISCENCE.
Speaking of the feet of English women reminds me of Captain McFadden, of Pittsburgh. The dear old Captain—he is dead and gone now these many a year—in addition to being one of the best river men that Pittsburgh could boast of, was also,—think of it,—a poultry fancier. When the fancy for Shanghais broke out the Captain joined in it, as he did in everything in the fowl way, and he paid cheerfully twenty-five dollars for a half-dozen eggs of the famous breed, which he immediately put under a hen that was in a setting mood. But Captain McFadden had a son who was without reverence either for his father or poultry. Young Jim McFadden went and bought a half-dozen duck’s eggs and removed the Shanghais and put the duck’s eggs under the hen, the said hen not knowing or caring whether she was hatching the common duck or the royal Shanghai. In time its labors were accomplished and Captain McFadden was viewing the resultant ducklings, with Jim laughing in his sleeve as he looked on.
“JIM, MY BOY, AND IS THEM THE SHANGHAIS? LUK AT THEIR FUTS! HEVENS, JIM.”
“Jim, me boy, and is them the Shanghais? Luk at their futs! Hevens, Jim, luk at their futs. All h—l wouldn’t up-trup em.”