I had a kind of presentiment that one or both would fall, and my instinct was not at fault.

Suddenly the heels of one flew up, and he struck the pavement with a concussion that sprung his hat from his head, and sent it some feet in the air.
In his efforts to recover himself, his legs became entangled in those of the other, and over he went, backwards, his head striking the ground with a terrible shock.
I started from the window, feeling, for an instant, faint and sick.
In a few moments I returned, and looked out again.

Both the fallen ones had regained their feet, and passed out of sight, and Biddy, who had witnessed the last scene in this half comic, half tragic performance, was giving the pavement a plentiful coating of ashes and cinders.
I may be permitted to remark, that I trust other housekeepers, whose pavements are washed on cold mornings--and their name, I had almost said, is legion--are as innocent as I was in the above case, and that the wrong to pedestrians lies at the door of thoughtless servants.

But is it not our duty to see the wrong has no further repetition?
It has been remarked that the residence of a truly humane man may be known by the ashes before his door on a slippery morning.

If this be so, what are we to think of those who coolly supply a sheet of ice to the side walk?
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