She had made a mistake. She had brought me Mr. ——’s clothes—I will not expose him by telling his name, for they were wretchedly ragged; but as I turned the key again on them and her, I squeezed this drop of comfort out of my misery—Thank heaven, I have not to mend those clothes!
Rat, tat, tat! Merciful man! what now?
A bundle of proofs, big as my head, to read and return by the bearer immediately, and quick at that.
I sat down. So did the devil. I began to read, pen in hand. I could not remember, with my bewildered brain, whether “stet” stood for “let it be,” or “take it out;” or what “d” signified in a typesetter’s alphabet. I read on. Could it be possible that I ever wrote such a disconnected sentence as this? No, they have left out an entire line; and forgot to send the MS. copy, too!
Devil take it! I exclaim; and so he does (the literal infernal!) and is out of sight before I can explain that the unorthodox exclamation was wrung out of me by the last drop in my brimming cup on that unlucky day.
A HOT DAY.
Sissing fry-pans, and collapsed flapjacks—what a hot day! Not a breath of air stirring, and mine almost gone. Fans enough, but no nerve to wield ’em. Food enough, but no strength to chew it. Chairs hot; sofa hotter; beds hottest. Sun on the back stoop; sun on the front stoop; and hot neighbors on both sides. Kittens mewing; red-nosed babies crying; poor little Hot-ten-tots! dogs dragging about with protruding tongues and inquiring tails; cockerels feebly essaying to crow. Every thing sticky, and flabby, and limpsy. Can’t read; can’t sew; can’t write; can’t talk; can’t walk; can’t even sleep; hate every body who passes through the room to make it hotter.
Now, just see that fly. If I have knocked her off my nose once, I have done it forty times; nothing will serve her but the bridge of my nose. I say her, because I am sure it is a female, on account of its extraordinary and spiteful persistence.
“Will I have any thing to drink?” No. Wine heats me; lemonade sours me; water perspires me. “Will I have the blinds closed?” No. “Will I have ’em open?” No. “What will I have?” Well—if there’s an old maid to be had, for heaven’s sake, walk her through this room to cool it. “What will I have for dinner?” Now, isn’t that the last drop in my brimming cup? Dinner, indeed! Soup hot; fish hot; beef hot; mutton hot; chicken hot;—ugh! Hot potatoes; hot squash; hot peas; hot pudding; hot children;—ugh! Tell that butcher to make his will, or get out of my kitchen. “Lady down stairs wishes to see me?” In the name of Adam and Eve, take all my dresses off the pegs and show her—but never believe I’d be so mad as to get into them for any body living.