260 
THE LADIES' FLORAL CABINET. 
say, 1 Whefice and what art thou, execrable shape?’ 
those were his very words, and he shouted them out 
like a madman.” 
As I had heard Aristarchus repeat those words the 
day before in his study, I knew that he must be the person 
under discussion, and I paused to hear the answer. 
“Well, that was uncivil enough to be sure,” replied a 
voice which I recognized as that of Miss Spice, who 
lived across the street, “but for my part, I’m surprised 
to learn that she has any shape; I never could discover 
any shape in such a mass of flesh.” 
And I never weighed over one hundred and seventy 
pounds in my life! But Miss Spice is an old maid 
and as thin as a hatchet. Aristarchus says there isn’t 
enough of her to get married. He can’t endure thin 
women. 
The day after this, Aristarchus was the worst I had 
ever known him, but I was afraid to speak to him about 
it, and I didn’t know what to do. But when evening 
came he seemed as calm as ever, until the children had 
gone to bed, and I mentioned that my throat was quite 
sore and I feared I had taken a severe cold. Then he 
came round behind me, and taking hold of my neck on 
each side, said: 
“ Let me knead your throat; it is one of the best rem¬ 
edies in the world.” 
“ What do you mean?” I exclaimed in alarm; but his 
fingers were already pressing on my jugular vein in a 
way that soon rendered me speechless. I gasped and 
gurgled, but could not get out a word, and was too 
thoroughly frightened to struggle; after a minute he 
relaxed his hold so that I could speak, and I gasped 
out— 
“You are killing me !” 
“Why, does this hurt?” he exclaimed, in a tone of 
cheerful surprise. “Did I choke you?” and again the 
pressure of his knuckles against my jugular nearly 
strangled me. I tore his hands from my throat by a 
violent effort and sprang to my feet, but terror must 
have looked out of my staring eyes and white face, for 
my husband exclaimed, “Why, Cordelia! this is no 
common sore throat. You must be really sick—you are 
white as a ghost. Lie down on the sofa, and I will go 
for a doctor at once.” 
No other suggestion could have brought such relief to 
my heart. 
“Do,” I murmured, sinking on the sofa. “Don’t come 
back without one.” 
In fifteen minutes Aristarchus returned with the 
doctor, a stranger of whose skill I knew nothing, but 
whose size rejoiced me, for he looked as if he might eat 
Aristarchus at two mouthfuls, if necessary. I was no 
longer afraid, and told the doctor at once that I had no 
need of his services for myself, but for my poor hus¬ 
band. At this Aristarchus dropped into a chair like a 
hot potato, but I went on and told the doctor about his 
ravings and my fears, and his final attempt to choke 
me to death. Aristarchus did not interrupt me, but his 
eyes seemed to grow bigger and bigger, and his face 
turned all colors. When I had finished, he burst forth 
without waiting for the doctor to speak. 
“ Good heavens ! Cordelia, why didn’t you tell me you 
were afraid, instead of getting a doctor here and pub¬ 
lishing it? Doctor, the whole explanation is this: I 
have a chronic throat trouble. An elocutionist says he 
can cure me; I go to him twice a week for lessons, and 
of course practice much of the time when in my study. 
His treatment includes some simple gymnastic exer¬ 
cises, of which one is to knead the throat. I didn’t tell 
Cordelia about it, because—well, I was afraid she 
would think—in short, I was afraid she might not have 
much faith in it.” 
That miserable doctor burst out laughing and 
laughed until he shook in his chair, and Aristarchus 
joined in and laughed till he shook, and I felt like 
shaking them both. Aristarchus would not let the 
doctor go until he had promised to regard the affair as 
a professional secret. But I don’t think he was offended, 
for whenever I meet him he always looks very pleasantly 
at me ! 
This was only the beginning. Now that it was no 
longer a secret, elocution ceased to confine itself to the 
study, but spread all over the house, and the first result 
was that Aristarchus no longer held the monopoly; for 
the children thinking it the best of fun soon joined in. 
But it was no fun for me. If I asked Aristarchus what 
he would like for dinner, he would most likely answer: 
“ ‘ Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, 
Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, 
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers.’ ” 
“ Oh, Aristarchus !” I would say, “do be serious.” 
And he would answer: 
“ Certainly, my love ! 
“ ‘ Give me three grains of corn, mother, 
Only three grains of corn, 
’Twill keep the little life I have 
Till the coming of the morn.’ ” 
Perhaps you think Aristarchus had his favorite 
dinner after that! 
Miranda Dorothea would be out at play for a long 
time and when she reappeared I would ask where she 
had been, and she would recite in her shrill treble: 
“ ‘ I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally, 
And sparkle out among the Fern, 
To bicker down a yalley,” 
Or I ask Leander to do an errand for me, and he 
answers: 
“ ‘ Must I budge ? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch 
under your testy humor ? ’ ” 
And he used to be such a good, respectful boy! I 
say, “ Leander, you should not answer your mother so; 
remember who you are.” And in slow, sepulchral 
tones that make my flesh creep, he replies: 
“ ‘ I am thy Father’s spirit; 
Doomed for a certain term to walk the night; 
And, for the day, confined to fast in fires, 
Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, 
Are burnt and purged away. But that I am forbid 
To tell the secrets of my prison house, 
I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word 
Would harrow up thy soul ; freeze thy young blood; 
Make thy two eyes, like stars, start from their spheres ; 
And each particular hair stand on end 
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine.’ ” 
In short, I could scarcely address any member of my 
family without having ancient poets and modern poets, 
dead-and-gone philosophers and living Concord aspirants 
for immortality, hurled metaphorically at my head until 
I was so bewildered that I knew not whether I was a 
high-strung Roman matron, a respectable American 
lady, or an inmate of some lunatic asylum. 
One day Aristarchus was raking off the lawn in front 
