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132
MY BOOTS.
out. I myself slumbered a little; and when towards morning I awoke, I found it was all a dream; but when I glanced towards the chimney-corner, I saw the boots all shrivelled up, standing like mummies beside the cold ashes! I looked at the paper which lay near to my lamp—it was grey paper, full of ink spots—the pen unquestionably had been over it, but the words had all run one into another; however the pen had written the Memoirs of the Boots on grey paper. That, however, which was legible I copied out; and the people will be so good as to recollect that it is not I, but my boots, which make this complaint of La bella Italia.
