Muscatine weekly journal. [volume] (Muscatine, Iowa) 185?-1890, 1859-04-22
THE MAGIC OF WORDS.
BY T. s. ARTHUR.

Gu, capClOuS or ault-nnQln8 man, anu
yet the home Of Peter Crandall was not
happy. Very little sunshine streamed
in across the. threshold. Was it his
wife's fault? A visitor, who saw her
in her usual mood, might, if conclusions
were made from first impressions, lead
to this opinion. She inclined to fret
fitness and impatience and often
scolded the children when her husband
could see little in them to blame.
The Crandall's were poor. MIR. G.
was a mechanic, and earned only me-
chanic's wages. Mrs. Crandall was
the mother Of five children, the oldest
of them thirteen years old; but their
narrow income left nothing to spare for
the hire of domestic, so all the work
fell on her. She was toil-worn and
toil-weary at the dying Of each day !;
and the same, though not to an equal
extent, might be said Of her husband.
lie had more strength for his work,
and therefore he could endure greater
fatigue. He had the advantage-which
was most important one-of free dom
from causes of nervous excitement, and
the inevitable exhaustion that followed.
He labored on at one kind of work, UNI
interrupted all day long; while she was
subject to perpetual and annoying in
terruptions, incident to her position OF
mother and housekeeper.
Between Peter Crandall and his wife
there did not seem to exist much affec-
ton. They never spoke loving words,
nor manifested, except on rare occa-
sions, any pleasure at meeting or any
mutual interest. The little courtesies
of life were something unknown in
their chcerless dwelling. Rude, boist-
erous, quarrelsome the children grew
up, bringing discord into the house that
was uncomfortable enough, without that
disagreeable inmate. The mother
scold,d and punished in anger; but
saw no good results of her discipline.
The father scolded in concert, but al
ways felt an unpleasant sensation af-
terward as if he had been doing some
thing wrong.
And so the years went on, and the
sunbeams came not across the TIRES
hold into their dwelling. Occasionally
Mr.. Crandall obtained brief glance
into some other homes, and as the
pleasant visions passed, sigh would
disturb his bosom, light and warmth
were there.
Something was wrong in his own
home; that he had felt for grea,
whilc-and he did not wholly blame his
wife. But the exact location of the
wrong and unhappiness he could not
so clearly perceive. In the beginning
it was different. Then there was a
warmth in his heart and sunshine in
the face Of his wife. But it was in his
memory, marked day after day as a
dial records the advancing shadow
how the brightness Of her face dimin
ished steadily until all was eclipsed.
All! if he had dreamed of the cause
But Mr.. Crandall was not the man who
looked inward upon his own life-not
man who considered his actions in
their effect upon others. He was,
moreover, silent, urdemonstrative
man, rarely expressing his feelings.
lie gave few outward signs by which
any one could read his heart. Hele
lay the origin of his trouble at home
the beginning Of the eclipse that left
this world almost in total darkness,
when it should have been bright noon
day. 1t was not enough for Mrs. c.,
in the early years Of their welded life,
t 0 kno,U that her husband loved her.
Her heart asked more. She wanted
loving words and loving looks, also j;
and for want of these, its green things
withered, and its blossoms faded. He
had told her in the beginning that he
loYed her, and having afterwards mar
ried in proof Of this declaration; hav-
ing worked ever since for the sustaining
of his home, and keeping her as far
above want as it was possible for him to
do-Mr. Crandall saw no reason why
he should be all the time passing COM
pliments. He couldn't do 1t. It was
not in HIM. He would have felt
ashamed of it as q weakness.
And so, almost from the beginning,
he failed to give those little outward
81 gins Of affection, those pleasant tokens
Of kindness so grateful to all. When
his wife said, as was often the case,
during the first year that succeeded
their marriage, "Thank you, Peter"
and smiled gratefully in return for
some little act Of kindness-or express.
cd pleasure when he came home from
his work at evening, her arm around
his neck and kissing him-or told him
how lonesome she felt all day, and what
q light his coming brought into their
home, Peter Crandall felt a glow Of
pleasure IN his heart. 1t did not come
within the range Of his Imagination
dull at best-to conceive that like kind
words from him would be to the spirit
Of his wife like dew to the thirsty
ground. So he never expressed pleas
ure at meeting, but rather affected,
from kind Of false pride, a certain
GOODNESS, as though it were an act of
manliness to appear indifferent. No
matter how many attentions his wife
might show him-no matter what she
prepared for his return, nor with what
skill she cooked the MONDAY or eve
ming meal, he never praised, and rarely
gave even the meagre reward of ex-
pressed qualification. But if things
were wrong-if the coffee was bad, or
the bread sour, or the meat burnt, he
was sure to speak out, and not always