chimney, from one end of the house to the other, and astonish all
guests by its generous amplitude. "But, wife," said I, "the
chimney--consider the chimney: if you demolish the foundation,
what is to support the superstructure?" "Oh, that will rest on
the second floor." The truth is, women know next to nothing about
the realities of architecture. However, my wife still talked of
running her entries and partitions. She spent many long nights
elaborating her plans; in imagination building her boasted hall
through the chimney, as though its high mightiness were a mere
spear of sorrel-top. At last, I gently reminded her that, little
as she might fancy it, the chimney was a fact--a sober,
substantial fact, which, in all her plannings, it would be well
to take into full consideration. But this was not of much avail.

And here, respectfully craving her permission, I must say a few
words about this enterprising wife of mine. Though in years
nearly old as myself, in spirit she is young as my little sorrel
mare, Trigger, that threw me last fall. What is extraordinary,
though she comes of a rheumatic family, she is straight as a
pine, never has any aches; while for me with the sciatica, I am
sometimes as crippled up as any old apple-tree. But she has not
so much as a toothache. As for her hearing--let me enter the
house in my dusty boots, and she away up in the attic. And for
her sight--Biddy, the housemaid, tells other people's housemaids,
that her mistress will spy a spot on the dresser straight through
the pewter platter, put up on purpose to hide it. Her faculties
are alert as her limbs and her senses. No danger of my spouse
dying of torpor. The longest night in the year I've known her lie
awake, planning her campaign for the morrow. She is a natural
projector. The maxim, "Whatever is, is right," is not hers. Her