"Yes, steam power is the future," my husband continues from his discussion about trains. "In fact, we now have people talking about the idea of self-powered vehicles for individuals, although it's still just a topic of idle chatter."
"Do you think that's possible, George?" I say as I saunter at Daddy's side. "That's amazing!"
We're coming around the bend, and our beautiful home is lumbering into view. I know that, when we get inside, there will be a servant to provide me with a treat for being a well-behaved wife.
I love our servant: she is a raccoon-woman named Elsa. Unlike women of more fortunate species, raccoon women have to work, usually as domestic servants or governesses. God surely intended for this to be the natural order, though, because after all, why else would God, in his wisdom, have given them such dexterous paws? All things are as they should be, and the world could not be better.
Of course, my husband--being generous and an abolitionist--had filed papers to have the two of them emancipated, and now he paid both of them a salary. "It's just practical," he had said. "They do better work, knowing they have to earn enough money to pay for their own keep." I suppose it makes some amount of sense, but why hadn't God made them want to be content to be kept for our own? My husband had smiled condescendingly, making me blush. "Matilda, perhaps you should ask that in your prayers," he said.
We approach, and Elsa's husband, Handy, opens the door for us. He is a squat, little raccoon man, clad in more colorful clothes than my husband's drab day-wear. "Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd," he says, bowing slightly.
"Thank you, Mr. Codfish," my husband says.
Handy laughs at this. "Oh, Mr. Shepherd, you can still just call me Handy, you know that! It's what I've always been!"
My husband nods. "Then you can just call me Charles when we're not entertaining company, Handy. I would greatly prefer it."
"Yes, sir! Uh, Charles."
Elsa rushes in, wearing her cute, little dress. It's so cute how women that can walk on their hind-legs like to dress in silly clothes and walk like men. "Oh, Matilda, darling!" the old servant gushes at me. "Come on, and have yourself a snack, now you're home!" she insists, putting one of Handy's fresh-caught codfish fillets into a food bowl reserved especially for this purpose.
Having obeyed servants all my life, I go over to eat. Obedience, in a woman, shows good breeding and humility, even when dealing with servants, although servants know the lady of a house obeys out of the graciousness God gives her, not by force. Servants who have forgotten this have seldom met good ends.
Once I am done with my snack, I think about what else I could possibly want out of life as I lick my lips. Life is so pleasurable, after all, what could a proper, well-bred lady possibly want?