Little Isaac.
Mr. Gobwottle came home from a meeting
of the Temperance Legion extremely drunk. He
went to the bed, piled himself loosely atop of it
and forgot his identity. About the middle of
the night, his wife, who was sitting up darning
stockings, heard a voice from the profoundest
depths of the bolster: “Say, Jane?”
Jane gave a vicious stab with the needle,
impaling one of her fingers, and continued her
work. There was a long silence, faintly punctuated
by the bark of a distant dog. Again that
voice—“Say—Jane!”
The lady laid aside her work and wearily
replied: “Isaac, do go to sleep; they are off.”
Another and longer pause, during which the
ticking of the clock became painful in the intensity
of the silence it seemed to be measuring. “Jane,
what's off!” “Why, your boots, to be sure,”
replied the petulant woman, losing patience; “I
pulled them off when you first lay down.”
Again the prostrate gentleman was still. Then
when the candle of the waking housewife had
burned low down to the socket, and the wasted
flame on the hearth was expiring bluely in convulsive
leaps, the head of the family resumed: “Jane,
who said anything about boots?”
There was no reply. Apparently none was
expected, for the man immediately rose, lengthened
himself out like a telescope, and continued:
“Jane, I must have smothered that brat, and
I'm 'fernal sorry!”
“What brat?” asked the wife, becoming interested.
“Why, ours—our little Isaac. I saw you put
'im in bed last week, and I've been layin' right onto
'im!”
“What under the sun do you mean?” asked
the good wife; “we haven't any brat, and never
had, and his name should not be Isaac if we
had. I believe you are crazy.”
The man balanced his bulk rather unsteadily,
looked hard into the eyes of his companion, and
triumphantly emitted the following conundrum:
“Jane, look-a-here! If we haven't any brat,
what'n thunder's the use o'bein' married!”
Pending the solution of the momentous problem,
its author went out and searched the night for a
whisky-skin.
