"My dear," queried Mr. Spoopendyke, "did you put those oysters on the cellar floor with the round shells down, as I told you to?"

"I did most of 'em," replied Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Some of 'em wouldn't stay that way. They turned right over."

"Must have been extraordinary intelligent oysters," murmured Mr. Spoopendyke, eying her with suspicion. "Didn't any of 'em stand up on end, and ask for the morning paper, did they?"

"You know what I mean," fluttered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "They tipped over sideways, and so I laid them on the flat shell."

"That's right," grunted Mr. Spoopendyke. "You want to give an oyster his own way, or you'll hurt his feelings. Suppose you bring up some of those gifted oysters, and an oyster-knife, and we'll eat 'em."

Mrs. Spoopendyke hurried away, and pattered back with the feast duly set out on a tea-waiter, which she placed before Mr. Spoopendyke with a flourish.

"Now," said she, drawing up her sewing-chair, and resting her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands, "when you get all you want, you may open me some."

Mr. Spoopendyke whirled the knife around his head, and brought it down with a sharp crack. Then he clipped away at the end a moment, and jabbed at what he supposed was the opening. The knife slipped, and ploughed the bark off his thumb.

"Won't come open, won't ye?" he shouted, fetching it another lick, and jabbing away again. "Haven't completed your census of who's out here working at ye, have ye?" and he brought it another whack. "P'rhaps ye think I haven't fully made up my mind to inquire within, don't ye?" and he rammed the point of the knife at it, knocking the skin off his knuckles.

"That isn't the way to open an oyster," suggested Mrs. Spoopendyke.

"Look here," roared Mr. Spoopendyke, turning fiercely on his wife. "Have you got any private understanding with this oyster? Has the oyster confided in you the particular way in which he wants to be opened?"

"No-o!" stammered Mrs. Spoopendyke. "Only I thought"—

"This is no time for thought!" shouted Mr. Spoopendyke, banging away at the edge of the shell. "This is the moment for battle; and if I've happened to catch this oyster during office hours, he's going to enter into relations with the undersigned. Come out, will ye?" he yelled, as the knife flew up his sleeve. "Maybe ye don't recognize the voice of Spoopendyke. Come out, ye measly coward, before ye make an enemy of me for life!" and he belted away at the shell with the handle of the knife, and spattered mud like a dredging-machine.

"Let me get you a hammer to crack him with," recommended Mrs. Spoopendyke, hovering over her husband in great perturbation.

"Don't want any hammer," howled Mr. Spoopendyke, slamming around with his knife. "S'pose I'm going to use brute force on a measly fish that I could swallow alive if I could only get him out of his house? Open your measly premises!" raved Mr. Spoopendyke, stabbing at the oyster vindictively, and slicing his shirt-sleeve clear to the elbow. "Come forth, and enjoy the society of Spoopendyke!" And the worthy gentleman foamed at the mouth, and he sunk back in his chair, and contemplated his stubborn foe with glaring eyes.

"I'll tell you what to do," exclaimed Mrs. Spoopendyke, radiant with a profound idea. "Crack him in the door."

"That's the scheme," grinned Mr. Spoopendyke, with horrible contortions of visage. "Fetch me the door. Set that door right before me on a plate. This oyster is going to stay here. If you think this oyster is going to enjoy any change of climate until he strikes the tropics of Spoopendyke, you don't know the domestic habits of shell-fish. Loose your hold!" squealed Mr. Spoopendyke, returning to the charge, and fetching the bivalve a prodigious whack. "Come into the outer world, where all is gay and beautiful. Come out, and let me introduce you to my wife." And Mr. Spoopendyke laid the oyster on the arm of his chair, and slugged him remorselessly.

"Wait," squealed Mrs. Spoopendyke: "here's one with his mouth open," and she pointed cautiously at a gaping oyster, who had evidently taken down the shutters to see what the row was about.

"Don't care a measly nickel with a hole in it," protested Mr. Spoopendyke, thoroughly impatient. "Here's one that's going to open his mouth, or the resurrection will find him still wrestling with the ostensible head of this family. Ow!" and Mr. Spoopendyke, having rammed the knife into the palm of his hand, slammed the oyster against the chimney-piece, where it was shattered, and danced around the room wriggling with wrath and agony.

"Never mind the oysters, dear," cried Mrs. Spoopendyke, following him around, and trying to disengage his wounded hand from his armpit.

"Who's minding 'em?" roared Mr. Spoopendyke, standing on one leg, and bending up double. "I tell ye that when I start to inflict discipline on a narrow-minded oyster that won't either accept an invitation or send regrets, he's going to mind me! Where's the oyster? Show me the oyster! Arraign the oyster!"

"Upon my word, you've opened him," giggled Mrs. Spoopendyke, picking up the smashed bivalve between the tips of her thumb and forefinger.

"Won't have him," sniffed Mr. Spoopendyke, eying the broken shell, and firing his defeated enemy into the grate. "If I can't go in the front-door of an oyster, I'm not going down the scuttle. That all comes of laying 'em on the flat shell," he continued, suddenly recollecting that his wife was to blame for the whole business. "Now you take the rest of 'em down, and lay 'em as I told you to."

"Yes, dear."

"And another time you want any oysters, you sit around in the cellar, and when they open their mouths you put sticks in. You hear?"

"Yes, dear."

And Mrs. Spoopendyke took the bivalves back, resolving that the next time they were in demand they would crawl out of their shells, and walk up-stairs arm in arm, before she would have any hand in the mutilation of her poor, dear, suffering husband by bringing them up herself.

Stanley Huntley.