Woodville Republican., 1889-11-30
HALF A MINUTE LATE.
How 1t Happened That Mr.. Smith
Missed His Train.

Mr.. Smith missed the train by Just
Dne-half minute, and he was in furious
temper over the matter. He lived in a
pretty, Countrywide suburban village,
about forty-fiye minutes ride from the
large city in which he had his place of
business, and he was accustomed to take
this particular train every morning.
Not once in three months did such a
thing happen as his being late for the
train; but on this occasion he felt like
declaring that half the time he had to
rush himself clear out of breath to reach
1t, or else miss it. He was in that exas-
perated state OF mind where he wanted
to blame somebody, abuse somebody; a
state of mind which, in q condition Of
development little nearer the savage,
would impel to acts of cruelty toward
any thing or any person on whom anger
could be wreaked. The person on whom,
in this instance, he could most quickly
and with the least impunity cast blame
was his wife. 1t was all her tault.
Why could not she manage household
affairs so that he could get his breakfast
earlier? He worked like slave at his
business ten hours day; he gave her
full control of the house and furnished
money to run it; she had a servant, and
it was pure and utter shiftlessness in
her, that breakfast could not be ready in
proper time. Thus, with flashing eyes,
soliloquized Mr.. Smith as, with anger
flushed face, he watched the train dis
appearing in the distance.
1t was a full hour and half till the
next train; it was nearly half mile
back to Mr.. Smiths house. He paced
back and forth nervously for few min
utes on the station platform, debating
in his mind whether he should wait
there for the next train or go back home.
As he mused, his anger grew He would
go back home and give his wife such a
piece of his mind as she would remember
for months. She should be made to feel
that it was no light matter to have
breakfast five minutes late. He turned
his face homeward and stamped heavily
along, with the air of a man determined
to do desperate deed. His face was
flushed with anger and his eye CLEANED
fiercely.
But, as he fastened along, somehow
or other his attention was diverted by
the song of bird among the trees that
lined his path. He looked up involun-
tarily. How brightly the sun was shin
ing; how blue the sky was; how balmy
and fragrant the air; how peaceful every
thing appeared as he looked off through
the green spaces on either side of che
village street. The trees were putting
forth their tenderest green; so was the
grass. He noticed the fragrance of the
crab-apple and wild-plum blossoms; he
distinguished the peculiar strain of a
bird he used to hear in boyhood. 1t was
the wood-thrush. He had listened to
that bird when, years ago, he had walked
in the meadows and lanes with the pret-
ty, shy young girl whom his heart was
then bent on winning for his wife. She
was his wife now. She was the mother
of three rosy, active children; they were
his and hers. She was not as pretty now
as she was them she was thin and care
worn. The plump rosiness and merry
smile were, for the most part, gone.
But what good, true wife she had been
to him. How had her economy and
faithfulness helped him in getting the
start he now had in the world. How
little she saw of the outside world, or of
diverting pleasures. How self-denying
and uncomplaining she had been, and
what a devoted mother to their childPen
And on that bright, sunshiny morning
he had been thinking hard thoughts of
her and meditating what sharp, cutting
words he could say to her-and all for a
trivial little loss of an hour from busi-
ness. Mr.. Smiths pace slackened; his
countenance relaxed; his heart melted
On such a morning he could not, would
not, by harsh words mar the harmony
and beauty of the sunshine and birds
and the green things growing. No; if
he could not speak kindly, he would
hold his peace.
AS Mr.. Smith neared his home, he felt
certain shrinking from meeting his
wife directly. He almost feared he
might betray on his couutenance some
of the harsh thoughts he had been
thinking. So he went around the side
of the house and entered the kitchen
door. Bridget was standing with per-
picked and exasperated expression on
her face, looking into the kitchen stove,
in which smouldered dark, dying fire.
"What is the matter, Bridget?"
Faith, sur, it, the stove that breaks
me heart entirely. The CRATE is broken
and the stoYe-pipe smokes, and whin /
sthriye to make quick fire, here's the
way it serves me-"
swell, Bridget, / believe it is all my
fault, Your mistress has told me many