"'Oh, he went off an hour since,' said the urchin; 'took his money-trunk and went down street.'
"Mrs. Jones leaped into the middle of the floor, examined the contents of wardrobe and closets. Yes—his clothes were all there; she couldn't decide whether she was a 'California widow' or not; the chances were about even.
"'Six little mouths to feed,' said she; 'house-rent to pay, and myself to keep out of mischief. Shouldn't have minded his going, if he hadn't kidnapped that money-trunk; he was getting dyspeptic and fussy, rather inclining to be ancient;' and she shook out her curls from under her cap, and attempted to finish her breakfast toilette.
"'T-o-m-m-y Jones,' said she; 'leave off shaving that cat, with your father's razor. Do you know what day it is?'
"'Well, you'd better ask father,' said the young hopeful. 'There he is, coming up the street with a money-trunk in his hand, of a Sunday morning.'
"'M-r. Jo-n-e-s,' said his spouse, as that gentleman came in, and walking so close up to him that their noses touched—'have you been imbibing? What did you get up so early for? and where on earth have you been? and which way did you go? and what have you been about? Make haste, and tell me! Pretty example for you to set this baptized Tommy—to be running round, Sunday morning, before sunrise, with a money-trunk under your arm. What do you suppose our minister'll think?'
"'Sunday morning!' said Jones, rubbing his forehead—'Sunday morning! That accounts! Couldn't think, for the life of me, why there wasn't a window-shutter taken down in the street. Been down to the store, as true as I'm a sinner; made the fire; opened the shutters, and hung out all the calicoes and ribbons and streamers I could find. Sunday Morning! Well, it's all your fault, Mrs. Jones; how was I to know? You didn't have salt fish for dinner, yesterday, though it was Saturday—that's the only way I know when Sunday comes. Shouldn't make innovations, Mrs. Jones; it's all your fault. There never was a commandment broke yet, that a woman wasn't at the bottom of it.'"
XLVI.
MRS. JUPITER'S SOLILOQUY, TAKEN DOWN IN SHORT-HAND.—BY FANNY FERN.
Sitting is the only posture for deliberation. Certainly. Don't 'the House' always 'sit' when any national egg is hatching? The philosophy and naturalness of the maxim is unmistakeably obvious. It accounts, too, for something I've never been able to comprehend, viz., how in the name of all that's astounding I became Mrs. Jonas Jupiter. I was not sitting when Jonas laid his moustache at my feet. If the Legislature would give me a chance to reconsider the subject, gunpowder shouldn't take me off my chair till I did it ample justice. Jonas probably knew what he was about, when he imposed on my simplicity that way. Nicodemus! to think I should have made such a life-time mistake, all for want of a chair! My veneration for furniture will be on the progressive for the future. I incline to the opinion that men are exceedingly artful. It's surprising how like Moses they can talk, and how like Judas they can act. If it wasn't that I'm bound to collect their mental skeletons to hang up in my dissecting-room, I should eschew the whole sex. But 'tis a pretty little amusement to the female naturalist to label the different specimens. As far as my scientific research extends, they have one defect in common, viz., that where the heart should be, there is a decided vacuum. It is a trifling oversight of Dame Nature's which her elbow should be jogged to rectify in her future productions. This little amendment in the masculine organization would be excruciatingly refreshing to the female lover of variety. No amount of brains, in my opinion, is an equivalent for this omission, but when heart and brains are both lacking!—saints and angels, what an abortion!