So he strayed off into the woods and came out at old Abner Davis’ ranch.  The two things Abner valued most were a windmill and a scratching-post for hogs.  They were equally beautiful, and the fame of their comeliness had gone widely abroad.  To them Joab naturally paid his attention.  The windmill, who was called Lucille Ashtonbury Clifford, received him with expressions of the liveliest disgust.  His protestations of affection were met by creakings of contempt, and as he turned sadly away he was rewarded by a sound spank from one of her fans.  Like a gentlemanly beef he did not deign to avenge the insult by overturning Lucille Ashtonbury; and it is well for him that he did not, for old Abner stood by with a pitchfork and a trinity of dogs.

Disgusted with the selfish heartlessness of society, Joab shambled off and was passing the scratching-post without noticing her. (Her name was Arabella Cliftonbury Howard.) Suddenly she kicked away a multitude of pigs who were at her feet, and called to the rolling beef of uncanny exterior: 

“Comeer!”

Joab paused, looked at her with his ox-eyes, and gravely marching up, commenced a vigorous scratching against her.

“Arabella,” said he, “do you think you could love a shaggy-hided beef with black hair?  Could you love him for himself alone?”

Arabella had observed that the black rubbed off, and the hair lay sleek when stroked the right way.

“Yes, I think so; could you?”

This was a poser:  Joab had expected her to talk business.  He did not reply.  It was only her arch way; she thought, naturally, that the best way to win any body’s love was to be a fool.  She saw her mistake.  She had associated with hogs all her life, and this fellow was a beef!  Mistakes must be rectified very speedily in these matters.

“Sir, I have for you a peculiar feeling; I may say a tenderness.  Hereafter you, and you only, shall scratch against Arabella Cliftonbury Howard!”

Joab was delighted; he stayed and scratched all day.  He was loved for himself alone, and he did not care for anything but that.  Then he went home, made an elaborate toilet, and returned to astonish her.  Alas! old Abner had been about, and seeing how Joab had worn her smooth and useless, had cut her down for firewood.  Joab gave one glance, then walked solemnly away into a “clearing,” and getting comfortably astride a blazing heap of logs, made a barbacue of himself!

After all, Lucille Ashtonbury Clifford, the light-headed windmill, seems to have got the best of all this.  I have observed that the light-headed commonly get the best of everything in this world; which the wooden-headed and the beef-headed regard as an outrage.  I am not prepared to say if it is or not.  A Comforter.

William Bunker had paid a fine of two hundred dollars for beating his wife.  After getting his receipt he went moodily home and seated himself at the domestic hearth.  Observing his abstracted and melancholy demeanour, the good wife approached and tenderly inquired the cause.  “It’s a delicate subject, dear,” said he, with love-light in his eyes; “let’s talk about something good to eat.”