Bluebeard in the 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 solve.  The Arabian Nights were silent on the subject.  Aladdin’s uncle, apparently, had both his legs.  He was too brisk in villainy to admit a wooden leg.  But then, he was only an uncle.  If his history ran out to the end, doubtless he would go with a limp in his riper days.  The story of the Bible—­although it trafficked in such veterans as Methuselah—­gave not a hint.  Abraham died full of years.  Here would have been a proper test—­but the book was silent.

My grandfather in those days had much leisure time.  He still kept an office at the rear of the house, although he had given up the regular practice of the law.  But a few old clients lingered on, chiefly women who carried children in their arms and old men without neckties who came to him for free advice.  These he guided patiently in their troubles, and he would sit an hour to listen to a piteous story.  In an extremity he gave them money, or took a well-meant but worthless note.  Often his callers overran the dinner hour and my mother would have to jingle the dinner bell at the door to rouse them.  Occasionally he would be called on for a public speech, and for several days he would be busy at his desk.  Frequently he presided at dinners and would tell a story and sing a song, for he had a fine bass voice and was famous for his singing.