erel-spoon.

Fishing-tackle is, clearly, "possessed," but in other fields Jonathan is
not free from trouble. Finding anything on a bureau seems to offer
peculiar obstacles. It is perhaps a big, black-headed pin that I want. "On
the pincushion, Jonathan."

He goes, and returns with two sizes of safety-pins and one long hat-pin.

"No, dear, those won't do. A small, black-headed one--at least small
compared with a hat-pin, large compared with an ordinary pin."

"Common or house pin?" he murmurs, quoting a friend's phrase.

"Do look again! I hate to drop this to go myself."

"When a man does a job, he gets his tools together first."

"Yes; but they say women shouldn't copy men, they should develop along
their own lines. Please go."

He goes, and comes back. "You don't want fancy gold pins, I suppose?"

"No, no! Here, you hold this, and I'll go." I dash to the bureau. Sure
enough, he is right about the cushion. I glance hastily about. There, in a
little saucer, are a half-dozen of the sort I want. I snatch some and run
back.

"Well, it wasn't in the cushion, I bet."

"No," I admit; "it was in a saucer just behind the cushion."

"You said cushion."

"I know. It's all right."

"Now, if you had said simply 'bureau,' I'd have looked in other places on
it."

"Yes, you'd have _looked_ in other places!" I could not forbear
responding. There is, I grant, another side to this question. One evening
when I went upstairs I found a partial presentation of it, in the form of
a little newspaper clipping, pinned on my cushion. It read as follows:--

"My dear," said she, "please run and bring me the needle from the
haystack."

"Oh, I don't know which haystack."

"Look in all the haystacks--you can't miss it; there's only one
needle."

Jonathan was in the cellar at the moment. When he came up, he said, "Did I
hear any one laughing?"

"I don't know. Did you?"

"I thought maybe it was you."

"It might have been. Something amused me--I forget what."

I accused Jonathan of having written it himself, but he denied it. Some
other Jonathan, then; for, as I said, this is not a personal matter, it is
a world matter. Let us grant, then, a certain allowance for those who hunt
in woman-made haystacks. But what about pockets? Is not a man lord over
his own pockets? And are they not nevertheless as so many haystacks piled
high for his confusion? Certain it is that Jonathan has nearly as much
trouble wit