The morning news. [volume] (Savannah, Ga.) 1887-1900, 1890-06-08
THEIR FIRST GREAT SORROW.
How Sunshine Came Again to the
Hcme of Bolivar Pyke.

Hcme of Bolivar Pyke.
From the Chicago Tribune.
Mr.. and Mrs. Bolivar Pyke had been
married about six weeks, and were still OPP
pressively happy. Not ripple of discord
had stirred the frog pond of their domestic
harn,ony. and their life had run as
smoothly and unobstructedly Jas Chicago
base bali clubs progress down the toboggan
slide. If there was anything that could
have made Bolivar happier be didn't know
what IL was. unless, possibly. it was to hear
that his tough, leathery, and grasping old
uncle in California had gone to the good
world; while the addition Of forty more
cupDoards and closets to the house could
hardly have added to the felicity OF his
young wife
This may sound like exaggeration, but
Won have positively no idea how unreason-
able'and absurdly happy these two young
persons were.
1t was an evening in May-an ordinary
evening in May, 1S90-and the rain hadn't
stopped 1t was falling as it fell in the
seventeenth day Of the second month Of the
6OOth year of the life of one Noah, and in
sheer despair the signal service man had be-
gun to predict wet weather.
ssBuenavista," said Bolivar. looking alb
stractedly about the room, ''if it wouldn't
be asking too great a favor"
'What is it, dearp asked Mrs. Pyke, ten
derlv.
'Please try the other knee awhile. This
enc is getting tired"
"You have never said anything like that
before, Bolivar she protested, reproach-
fully. Perhaps I'd better 60 and sit on a
chair"
Snow, don't get huffy, darling. You
don't look SO pretty when you frown."
81 am not frowning, Bolivar"
"You certainly are. Buenavista."
''Then don't look pretty !" she exclaimed.
bouncing up and seating herself ten feet
away. "All right, Mr.. Pyke! You-you-
you're getting tired of me. I-I-wish 1
Now look here, Buenayista, don't be
foolish. There's nothing to quarrel about"
'rm not quarreling, sirl I'm not going
to quarrel, either If there's anything Of
that kind done you will be the one who
does it. Mr.. Pyke."
81 am glad TO hear it, my dear"
"You needn't call me your dear. | am
not dear to you any more.n
81 thought you said you were not going
to quarrel"
'I did, sir, and | am not In spite Of your
conduct, MIR. Pyke, | am still your loving
wife"
Then, dearest"
'No, sir, am not your dearest"
swell, Buenavista, then--if you prefer it
If you are still my loving wife, won't you
please sing something's
What for! Are you afraid I'll try to sit
on your knee again? You needn't"
MONO, Buenavista. l thought It might
clear up the atmosphere of this room little.
That's all"
With the aspect of martyr going cheer
fully to the stake Mrs. Pyke went to the
piano and sat down before it.
what shall singF she asked meekly.
"Perhaps-h' it would make
things seem more cheerful if you should
tackle Home. Sweet Home'n
Mrs. Pyke fixed her eyes on a spot near
the ceiling where the wall paper didn't ex-
actly match and walled out the touching
melody:
Mid ple-a-a-sures and pa-a-alaces tho
o-ugh'-I know well enough, MIR. PIXIE.
you have only asked me sing this to make me
appear ridiculous, but am going to do it
we may ro-o-o-am, Be it e-e-eve--er So
II think any man who tries to make his
wife the object of rldicule never, never cared
anything for her-'hu-u-u-mble there's
no-o-o place like'-I have always done
everything could to make home phi pleas
ant, and you you know it-sho-o-ome,
A cha-a-arm from the ski-i-ies seems to-
seems like the ghastliest mockery in the
world, but you would have it--'ha-a- llo-ow
us the-e-ere. Which, se-e-eek through the
w-o-o-orld is meier me-e-et with else
whe-e-ere Ho-o-o-ome, ho-ome. sw'-pn
sing it through if it k-k-kills me
'swe-e-eet, swe-e-e-eet home. There's no-o-o
place iike'-ain't you ashamed Of yourself,
Bolivar Pyke, to sit there pretending you
care anything about our home any more,
or me either ?-'ho-o-me. There's 100000
place like'-B-B-Bolivar. dear, can'tl
Yes, will Iwill-'ho-o-o-omer"
As her quavering voice sounded the last
word of the song manly voice Joined in
with deep bass, her trembling little fingers
were gathered in close grasp, her head
sank on Bolivars shoulder, an d
But what business has any outside bar
barian to be intrudings Let us retire.