Thursday

:

Thursday, says she, no, Child, if it please God, you shall not begin upon Childermas-day; tell your Writing-Master that Friday will be soon enough.

I was reflecting with my self on the Odness of her Fancy, and wondering that any body would establish it as a Rule to lose a Day in every Week. In the midst of these my Musings she desired me to reach her a little Salt upon the Point of my Knife, which I did in such a Trepidation and hurry of Obedience, that I let it drop by the way; at which she immediately startled, and said it fell towards her. Upon this I looked very blank; and, observing the Concern of the whole Table, began to consider my self, with some Confusion, as a Person that had brought a Disaster upon the Family. The Lady however recovering her self, after a little space, said to her Husband with a Sigh,

My Dear, Misfortunes never come Single.

My Friend, I found, acted but an under Part at his Table, and being a Man of more Goodnature than Understanding, thinks himself obliged to fall in with all the Passions and Humours of his Yoke-fellow:

[Do] not you remember, Child, says she, that the Pidgeon-House fell the very Afternoon that our careless Wench spilt the Salt upon the Table?
Yes, says he, my Dear, and the next Post brought us an Account of the Battel of Almanza[1].

The Reader may guess at the figure I made, after having done all this Mischief.

[I]

dispatched my Dinner as soon as I could, with my usual Taciturnity; when, to my utter Confusion, the Lady seeing me