Once upon a time I asked Jonathan to get me something from the top shelf in the closet. He went, and failed to find it. Then I went, and took it down. Jonathan, watching over my shoulder, said, “But that wasn’t the top shelf, I suppose you will admit.”
Sure enough! There was a shelf above. “Oh, yes; but I don’t count that shelf. We never use it, because nobody can reach it.”
“How do you expect me to know which shelves you count and which you don’t?”
“Of course, anatomically—structurally—it is one, but functionally it isn’t there at all.”
“I see,” said Jonathan, so contentedly that I knew he was filing this affair away for future use.
On another occasion I asked him to get something for me from the top drawer of the old “high-boy” in the dining-room. He was gone a long while, and at last, growing impatient, I followed. I found him standing on an old wooden-seated chair, screw-driver in hand. A drawer on a level with his head was open, and he had hanging over his arm a gaudy collection of ancient table-covers and embroidered scarfs, mostly in shades of magenta.
“She stuck, but I’ve got her open now. I don’t see any pillow-cases, though. It’s all full of these things.” He pumped his laden arm up and down, and the table-covers wagged gayly.
I sank into the chair and laughed. “Oh! Have you been prying at that all this time? Of course there’s nothing in that drawer.”
“There’s where you’re wrong. There’s a great deal in it; I haven’t taken out half. If you want to see—”
“I don’t want to see! There’s nothing I want less! What I mean is—I never put anything there.”