help him over the hills. So the wagon was rummaged, the bag
brought to light, and I was sent to one of the nearest houses
to get something for him to eat out of. I did not think to ask
what particular vessel to inquire for; but after I had knocked,
I decided upon a meat-platter or a pudding-dish, and with the
good woman's permission finally took both, that Halicarnassus
might have his choice.

"Which is the best?" I asked, holding them up.

He surveyed them carefully, and then said,--

"Now run right back and get a tumbler for him to drink out of,
and a teaspoon to feed him with."

I started in good faith, from a mere habit of unquestioning
obedience, but with the fourth step my reason returned to me,
and I returned to Halicarnassus and--kicked him. That sounds
very dreadful and horrible, and it is, if you are thinking of
a great, brutal, brogan kick, such as a stupid farmer gives to
his patient oxen; but not, if you mean only a delicate,
compact, penetrative nudge with the toe of a tight-fitting
gaiter,--addressed rather to the conscience than the sole, to
the sensibilities rather than the senses. The kick masculine
is coarse, boorish, unmitigated, predicable only of Calibans.
The kick feminine is expressive, suggestive, terse, electric,--
an indispensable instrument in domestic discipline, as women
will bear me witness, and not at all incompatible with beauty,
grace, and amiability. But, right or wrong, after all this
interval of rest and reflection, in full view of all the