Middletown transcript., 1906-04-28
WHEN WIFE'S AWAY
BY EDWIN l. sABIN

you Stlffen the h0CSe St1HenS, 100,
You fancy that your hear a rus
tie, and you glance up, quickly,
at the door way. For the inst int
you confidently expect to see her
But you don't see her; and she
doesn't come.
Puff. puff; you apply yourself
to your magazine, determined to
be oblivious to the haunted des'
olation around you. You settle
as far as you can into the chair,
so that the shadows shall not find
you.
Puff, puff; what a jolly bache'
lor evening you are having!
Ugh-that pipe! 1t is too
strong. You lay it aside, and
arise and discontentedly move
about the room-treading softly
SO as not to disturb this extraor-
dinarily quiet house. Oh, it is
the quietest place; a regular
tomb!
You declare! 1t does make a
big difference, not having her at
hand. Of course, often she just
sat there. and you both read, and
said nothing; and yet-well, GER
taiuly she filled large hole.
You contemplate the clock. By
this time she must safely be at
her journeys end. You contem-
plate the calendar. Thirteen
more nights ahead of you!
Heigh-ho! Drat that pipe! You
wish you had not attempted it.
What's the matter with going
to bed and getting a good nights
sleep? You stalk, echoing garound
the house, locking1up; and when
you enter your sleeping chamber
you discover that she has turned
back the covers, and has laid out
your change of garments for the
morrow-whereupon surge of
vague remorse wells within you,
and you wish that you had been
nicer to her.
Tick, took; tick, took, through
the blackness reverberates in
loud, solemn tones the clock in
the library, as amid your huge,
still chamber you compose your
self for slumber.
Tick, took; tick, took, all the
night long, whenever you are
awake; and it thrusts upon you
such sense of unprotectedness
that you are fain to stick your
head under the bed clothes.
Morning, and you don with
haste those garments-tokens of
her solicitude-and flee to the
boarding-place which, also, she
had arranged for you, but only
after much anxious planning.
The day passes, and your sec.
ond evening comes. Again your
key rattles in the lock, and again
you stamp, like a small boy with
his whistle, into the cold, echo
ing hall. The house smells of
stale tobacco, and you feel re-
proach. You ought to have aired
the rooms.
Your pipe, still on the library
table, and the package of "Gold-
en- Leaf" somehow repel you.
After tidgeting here and there,
unable to settle yourself, and
standing at the window absent
mindedly gazing out for someone
you decide to go down town and
look up few of the fellows, =
the "old crowd" Aye, now is
your chance to do as you please
once more, to live like you used
to in the bachelor past, when you
were man among men.
: You fall in with the"old crowd"
at the usual place. Your appear
ance upon the scene is greeted
with storm of derision, COM
ment, quip and dig, and all in
shape of a joyial welcome.
Yet the billiards, and the cigars,
and the anecdotes, and the rest,
do not present that glorious en-
semble which in retrospect had
been so allnring. You chida your
self for having waxed over-nice,
too particular, effeminate. And,
nevertheless, although you are
in a crowd, you are not Of it.
Something has come into your
life, to set you apart from these
your former boon companions.
You are an outsider.
Other married men are there,
and out of their experience they
gleefully detail to the listeners
the fact that "when the cats
away the mice will play" and
that a honeymoon can't last for
ever. Eh, old chap? and they
chuck you in the ribs.
You loathe their sacriligious
inSinuationS Thnv oonDot oon,