“Well, what then?” inquired my mother.

“Oh, the tail—­that’s all.”

At the mention of the tail my mother very nearly went off in a swoon—­her head fell back, and I heard her mutter, “So vulgar! so ungenteel!” However, she recovered herself, and appeared to be for some time in deep thought.  At last she rose up, ordered me to fetch something extra for supper, and recommenced her ironing.

As soon as I had executed her commission I went to the hospital, where I found my father, who, with the other men, had just been dismissed.  He accompanied me to my mother, shook hands with her very good-humoredly, kissed Virginia, whom he took on his knee, praised the supper, drank only one pot of porter, and then returned to the hospital, to sleep in the cabin which had been allotted to him in the Warriors’ Ward, of which Anderson was the boatswain.  My mother, although not very gracious, was much subdued, and for a few days everything went on very comfortably; but my mother’s temper could not be long restrained.  Displeased at something which she considered as very vulgar, she ventured to assail my father as before, concluding her tirade as usual, with “There—­now you’re vexed!”

My father looked at her very sternly.—­At last he said, “You’re just right—­I am vexed; and whenever you tell me so in future I’ll prove that it’s no lie.”  He then rose, stumped upstairs to my room, in which he had deposited his sea-chest, and soon made his appearance with the formidable and never-to-be-forgotten tail in his hand.  “Mistress,” said he, as my mother retreated, “you said, ‘Now you’re vexed’ to me just now.  I ask you again, am I vexed, or am I not?” and my father flourished the tail over his head.

My mother looked at the strange weapon:  the remembrance of the past was too painful; she was conquered by her fear.

“Oh, no,” cried she, falling on her knees.  “You’re not vexed—­indeed you are not.”

“You’re quite sure of that?” responded my father authoritatively, as he advanced toward her.

“Oh! yes, yes,” cried my mother, trembling; “indeed you’re not.”

“Ain’t I in a very good humor?” continued my father.

“Yes, you are in the best of humors, and always are so, unless—­I aggravate you,” replied my mother, whimpering.

“Well,” replied my father, lowering his tail, “I expect we’ve come to a right understanding at last.  So now get up and wipe your eyes; but recollect, that whenever you dare to tell me that I’m vexed, I won’t be so ungenteel as to contradict you.”

Thus was the mastery gained by my father, and never lost.  It is true that sometimes my mother would forget herself, and would get on as far as “There now, you’re—­,” but she would stop there, and correct herself, saying, “No, you’re not,” and allow her temper to evaporate by singing one of her usual ditties, as “Hush-a-by, baby, on the tree-top;” but my father never took notice of her singing; and being really a very good-tempered man, my mother’s temper gradually became improved.