The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1890-02-15
DOMESTIC FELICITY.

temper over the matter. He lived in a
pretty, country-like suburban village,
about forty five minutes ride from the
large city in which he had his place Of
business, and he was accustomed to
take this train every morning. Not
once in three months did such thing
happen as his being late for the train
but on this occasion he felt like declar-
ing that half the time he had to rush
himself clear out of breath to reach It,
or else miss it. He was in that exas-
perated state of mind where he wanted
to blame somebody, abuse somebody
state of mind which, in a condition
of development little nearer the saw
age, would impel to Gets of cruelty tow
ard any thing or ANY person on whom
anger could be wreaked. The person
on whom, i'll this instance, he could
most quickly and with the least impu-
nifty cast blame was his wife. 1t was all
her fault. Why could she not manage
household affairs so that he could get
his breakfast earlier2 He worked like
slave at his business ten hours a day
he gave her full control of the house,
and furnished money to run it /; she had
servant, and it was pure utter shift
lessness In her that breakfast could not
be ready IN proper time. Thus, with
flashing eyes, soliloquized Mr. Smith,
as, with anger-fushed face, he watched
the train disappearing in the distance.
1t was 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 for
the next train or 60 back home. As he
mused, his anger grew. He would
60 home, and give his wife such
a piece of his mind as she would
remember for months. She should be
made to feel tina! it was no light matter
to have breakfast five minutes late. He
turned his face homeward. and stamp
ed heavily along, with the air of man
determined to do a desperate deed.
His face flushed with anger, and his
eye cleaned fiercelv.
But, as as he fastened along, some
how or other, his attention was diverted
by the song of bird among the trees
that lined his pain. How brightly the
sun was shining how blue the sky was,
how balmy and fragrant the air how
peaceful everything appeared as he
looked off through the green spaces on
either side of the village! The trees
were putting forth their tenderest green
so was the grass. He noticed the frag-
rance of the crab-apple and wild plum
blossoms he distinguished the peculiar
strain of bird he used to hear in boy
hood. 1t was the wood-thrush. He
has listened to that bird when, years
ago, he had walked in the meadows
and lanes with the pretty, shy youne
girl whom his heart was then bent or
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 then she was thin and careworn
The plump rosiness and merry smile
were, for the most part, gone. But
what a good wife, true wife she had
been to him How her economy ano
talthfulness had 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 accomplishing she had
been, and what a devoted mother tc
their children And on that bright
sunshiny morning he had been thinking
hard thoughts of her, and meditatine
what sharp, cutting words he could say
to her-and all for trivial little loss O
an hour from business Mr.. Smith:
pace slackened his countenance relax
ed ; his heart melted. On such morn.
ing he could not, by harsh words mai
the harmony and beauty of the sun.
shine and birds and the green thing:
growing. No; if he could not speak
kindly he would hold his peace.
As MIR. Smith neared his home he
felt certain Striking from meeting hi:
wife directly. He almost feared he
might betray on his countenance some
of the harsh thoughts he had beer
thinking. So he went around the side
of the house and entered the kitchen
door. Bridget was standing with a per.
picked and exasperated expression or
her face looking into the kitchen stove
in which smoldered a dark, dying fire
"What is the matter, Bridget1"
"Faith, sur, It's the stove that break:
me heart entirely. The crate is broker
and the stovepipe smokes, and whin
strive to make quick fire here's the
way it serves"
"Well, Bridget, believe it is all m,
fault. Your mistress has asked mt
many times to bring new crate from
the city and also to send man te
to clean out the stovepipe and chimney
[ will put this down in my notebook
and bring the new crate this evening
and Pat McFlynn, the timer, shall be
sent right up this morning to clean and
fix the pipe"
ooh. thank We. sur II said Bridget