family, who, for his pleasure, lopped off legs? There had been no breath of
such a scandal. Yet, if my reading and studies were correct, such things
had happened in other families not very different from ours; not in our own
town maybe, but in such near-by places as Kandahar and Serendib--places
which in my warm regard were but as suburbs to our street, to be gained if
you persevered for a hundred lamp-posts. Or could the leg belong to Annie
the cook? Her nimbleness with griddle-cakes belied the thought: And once,
when the wind had swished her skirts, manifestly she was whole and sound.
Then all at once I knew it to be my grandfather's. Grown familiar, I pulled
it to the window. I tried it on, but made bad work of walking.

To the eye my grandfather had two legs all the way down and, except for
his crutches and an occasional squeak, you would not have detected his
infirmity. Evidently the maker did no more than imitate nature, although,
for myself, I used to wonder at the poverty of his invention. There would
be distinction in a leg, which in addition to its usual functions, would
also bend forward at the knee, or had a surprising sidewise joint--and
there would be profit, too, if one cared to make a show of it. The greatest
niggard on the street would pay two pins for such a sight.

As my grandfather was the only old gentleman of my acquaintance, a wooden
leg seemed the natural and suitable accompaniment of old age. Persons, it
appeared, in their riper years, cast off a leg, as trees dropped their
leaves. But my grandmother puzzled me. Undeniably she retained both of
hers, yet her hair was just as white, and she was almost as old. Evidently
this law of nature worked only with men. Ladies, it seemed, were not
deciduous. But how the amputation was effected in men--whether by day or
night--how the choice fell between the right and left--whether the wooden
leg came down the chimney (a proper entrance)--how soon my father would go
the way of all masculine flesh and cast his off--these matters I could not