Peter gathered up his boots, and half reclining upon the watchman, wended his way to the common receptacle, where, after discovering the trick played upon him, and finding that the “hook-em-sniveys” were not forthcoming, he shared his wrath between the boots which had originally betrayed him, and the individual who had consequently betrayed him. At length,
“Sweet sleep, the wounded bosom healing,”
restored Peter to himself and that just estimate of the fitness of things, which teaches that it is not easy—even for a man who is as sober as a powder-horn—to pull a pair of long boots over another pair; particularly if the latter happen to be wet and muddy. Convinced of this important truth, Peter put his boots under his arm, and departed to get the straps repaired, and try the efficacy of hook-em-sniveys where the law could not interfere.
And such was the close of this remarkable episode in the life of the grim little man and the queer little man, whose monomania had boots for its object.
THE IDIOT BOY.
There is a lowly mountain home
That nestles near a clear blue stream,
A shady nook—a fitting spot
For pilgrim rest, or poet’s dream.