In vain all protests. Next morning I went out into the road, where I had noticed a diabolical-looking old gander, that, for its doughty exploits in the way of scratching into forbidden inclosures, had been rewarded by its master with a portentous, four-pronged, wooden decoration, in the shape of a collar of the Order of the Garotte. This gander I cornered and rummaging out its stiffest quill, plucked it, took it home, and making a stiff pen, inscribed the following stiff note: CHIMNEY SIDE, April 2. _Mr. Scribe._ SIR:—For your conjecture, we return you our joint thanks and compliments, and beg leave to assure you, that We shall remain, Very faithfully, The same, I AND MY CHIMNEY. Of course, for this epistle we had to endure some pretty sharp raps. But having at last explicitly understood from me that Mr. Scribe’s note had not altered my mind one jot, my wife, to move me, among other things said, that if she remembered aright, there was a statute placing the keeping in private houses of secret closets on the same unlawful footing with the keeping of gunpowder. But it had no effect. A few days after, my spouse changed her key. It was nearly midnight, and all were in bed but ourselves, who sat up, one in each chimney-corner; she, needles in hand, indefatigably knitting a sock; I, pipe in mouth, indolently weaving my vapors. It was one of the first of the chill nights in autumn. There was a fire on the hearth, burning low. The air without was torpid and heavy; the wood, by an oversight, of the sort called soggy. “Do look at the chimney,” she began; “can’t you see that something must be in it?” “Yes, wife. Truly there is smoke in the chimney, as in Mr. Scribe’s note.” “Smoke? Yes, indeed, and in my eyes, too. How you two wicked old sinners do smoke!—this wicked old chimney and you.” “Wife,” said I, “I and my chimney like to have a quiet smoke together, it is true, but we don’t like to be called names.” “Now, dear old man,” said she, softening down, and a little shifting the subject, “when you think of that old kinsman of yours, you _know_ there must be a secret closet in this chimney.” “Secret ash-hole, wife, why don’t you have it? Yes, I dare say there is a secret ash-hole in the chimney; for where do all the ashes go to that we drop down the queer hole yonder?” “I know where they go to; I’ve been there almost as many times as the cat.” “What devil, wife, prompted you to crawl into the ash-hole? Don’t you know that St. Dunstan’s devil emerged from the ash-hole? You will get your death one of these days, exploring all about as you do. But supposing there be a secret closet, what then?” “What then? why what should be in a secret closet but—” “Dry bones, wife,” broke in I with a puff, while the sociable old chimney broke in with another.