SPOOPENDYKE OPENING OYSTERS.
"My dear," queried Mr. Spoopendyke, "did you put those oysters on the cellar floor with the round shells down, as I told you to?"
"I did most of 'em," replied Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Some of 'em wouldn't stay that way. They turned right over."
"Must have been extraordinary intelligent oysters," murmured Mr. Spoopendyke, eying her with suspicion. "Didn't any of 'em stand up on end, and ask for the morning paper, did they?"
"You know what I mean," fluttered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "They tipped over sideways, and so I laid them on the flat shell."
"That's right," grunted Mr. Spoopendyke. "You want to give an oyster his own way, or you'll hurt his feelings. Suppose you bring up some of those gifted oysters, and an oyster-knife, and we'll eat 'em."
Mrs. Spoopendyke hurried away, and pattered back with the feast duly set out on a tea-waiter, which she placed before Mr. Spoopendyke with a flourish.
"Now," said she, drawing up her sewing-chair, and resting her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, "when you get all you want, you may open me some."
Mr. Spoopendyke whirled the knife around his head, and brought it down with a sharp crack. Then he clipped away at the end a moment, and jabbed at what he supposed was the opening. The knife slipped, and ploughed the bark off his thumb.