In Which It Appears That a Senator Is But a Man


The light of the cheerful fire shone on the rug and carpet of a cosey
parlor, and glittered on the sides of the tea-cups and well-brightened
tea-pot, as Senator Bird was drawing off his boots, preparatory to
inserting his feet in a pair of new handsome slippers, which his wife
had been working for him while away on his senatorial tour. Mrs. Bird,
looking the very picture of delight, was superintending the arrangements
of the table, ever and anon mingling admonitory remarks to a number of
frolicsome juveniles, who were effervescing in all those modes of untold
gambol and mischief that have astonished mothers ever since the flood.

"Tom, let the door-knob alone,--there's a man! Mary! Mary! don't pull
the cat's tail,--poor pussy! Jim, you mustn't climb on that table,--no,
no!--You don't know, my dear, what a surprise it is to us all, to see
you here tonight!" said she, at last, when she found a space to say
something to her husband.

"Yes, yes, I thought I'd just make a run down, spend the night, and have
a little comfort at home. I'm tired to death, and my head aches!"

Mrs. Bird cast a glance at a camphor-bottle, which stood in the
half-open closet, and appeared to meditate an approach to it, but her
husband interposed.

"No, no, Mary, no doctoring! a cup of your good hot tea, and some of
our good home living, is what I want. It's a tiresome business, this
legislating!"