Mr. Smith's Stovepipe.
Once upon a time there lived a certain man and wife, and their name—well, I think it must have been Smith, Mr. and Mrs. John Smith. One chilly day in October Mrs. Smith said to her husband: "John, I really think we must have the stove up in the sitting-room." And Mr. Smith from behind his newspaper answered "Well." Three hundred and forty-six times did Mr. and Mrs. Smith repeat this conversation, and the three hundred and forty-seventh time Mr. Smith added: "I'll get Brown to help me about it some day."
It is uncertain how long the matter would have rested thus, had not Mrs. Smith crossed the street and asked neighbor Brown to come over and help her husband set up a stove, and as she was not his wife he politely consented and came at once.
With a great deal of grunting, puffing, and banging, accompanied by some words not usually mentioned in polite society, the two men at last got the stove down from the attic. Mrs. Smith had placed the zinc in its proper position, and they put the stove way to one side of it, but of course that didn't matter.
Then they proceeded to put up the stovepipe. Mr. Smith pushed the knee into the chimney, and Mr. Brown fitted the upright part to the stove. The next thing was to get the two pieces to come together. They pushed and pulled, they yanked and wrenched, they rubbed off the blacking onto their hands, they uttered remarks, wise and otherwise.
Presently it occurred to Mr. Smith that a hammer was just the thing that was needed, and he went for one. Mr. Brown improved the opportunity to wipe the perspiration from his noble brow, totally oblivious of the fact that he thereby ornamented his severe countenance with several landscapes done in stove blacking. The hammer didn't seem to be just the thing that was needed, after all. Mr. Smith pounded until he had spoiled the shape of the stovepipe, and still the pesky thing wouldn't go in, so he became exasperated and threw away the hammer. It fell on Mr. Brown's toe, and that worthy man ejaculated—well, it's no matter what he ejaculated. Mr. Smith replied to his ejaculation, and then Mr. Brown went home.
Why continue the tale? Everybody knows that Mr. Smith, after making a great deal of commotion, finally succeeded in getting the pipe into place, that he was perfectly savage to everybody for the rest of the day, and that the next time he and Brown met on the street both were looking intently the other way.
But there is more to tell. It came to pass in the course of the winter that the pipe needed cleaning out. Mrs. Smith dreaded the ordeal, both for her own sake and her husband's. It happened that the kitchen was presided over by that rarest of treasures, a good-natured, competent hired girl. This divinity proposed that they dispense with Mr. Smith's help in cleaning out the pipe, and Mrs. Smith, with a sigh of relief, consented. They carefully pulled the pipe apart, and, holding the pieces in a horizontal position that no soot might fall on the carpet, carried it into the yard.
After they had swept out the pipe and carried it back they attempted to put it up. That must have been an unusually obstinate pipe, for it steadily refused to go together. The minds of Mrs. Smith and her housemaid were sufficiently broad to grasp this fact after a few trials; therefore they did not waste their strength in vain attempts, but rested, and in an exceedingly un-masculine way held a consultation. The girl went for a hammer, and brought also a bit of board. She placed this on the top of the pipe, raised her hammer, Mrs. Smith held the pipe in place below, two slight raps, and, lo, it was done.
See what a woman can do. This story is true, with the exception of the names and a few other unimportant items. I say, and will maintain it, that as a general thing a woman has more brains and patience and less stupidity than a man. I challenge any one to prove the contrary.—N. E. Homestead.