The Winslow mail., 1922-06-23

Honeybug is a good stOry-teller, and he
was telling us bully yarn, and for
Il brief season we forgot the burdens
laid upon us, which are greater than
we can bear. If you could tell a story
rs well as Honeybug does, I'd fill these
ancestral halls with silvery laughter,
but you never try to say anything
amusing, Mrs. Jamesworthy. You do
tell stories, but they are of a gloomy
and tragic character.
Last night, when I came home, you
told a dramatic story to the effect that
you had callers all afternoon, and
hadn't chance to cook anything for
me, and so had to eat canned salmon
and soda crackers, and wash them
down with water, and I insist that
when husband comes home from his
arduous labors in the changing mart,
so empty that his watch chain makes
clanking sound when it flaps against
his spine. he should have warm vic
tuals, something he can consume with
pleasure and pride. The fact that you
had an invasion of callers is a cheap
excuse.
"My sainted mother never would
have permitted any callers to interfere
with her management of the cook
stove. She realized that her old man
kept the shebang going, and that he
should have the right of way If any
old hens happened to be in the house
when grub time approached, my moth
er would request them, firmly but re-
spectfully, to chase themselves, and if
they didn't like it they could lump it.
When my father came home from his
work, the hay was always in the
manger for him, and he never had to
wait five minutes for a meal.
"The day before yesterday, when I
came staggering home, faint and
weary from my herculean efforts to
make both ends meet, you told me an
other story. 1t was to the effect that
you had been downtown sizing up a
shipment of new spring hats, just re-
ceived at the millinery foundry, and
you were so interested you forgot the
lapse of time, and didn't get home in
time to cook anything. But you flashed
a winning smile at me, and said it
wouldn't take you ten minutes to warm
up can Of beans, and there was some
cold coffee left from breakfast, and you
had plenty of smoked herrings on
hand.
DOUBTLESS should have burst forth
into boisterous laughter over this en-
tertaining anecdote, but somehow it
didn't appeal to my sense Of humor.
l was so busy that day l hadn't time
to eat anything at noon, and all the
way home l was hoping you would
have a porterhouse steak about three
inches thick, and a raft of boiled po-
tatoes, and perhaps a slab of mince
pie as an epilogue.
"The day before that, when / came
home as hollow as bass drum, and
fairly gnashing my teeth with hum
ger, you related a humorous story to
the effect that your club didn't adjourn
on time that afternoon, and you didn't
get home until late, SO l would have
to get along with picked-up supper,
If l would be patient few minutes,
you said, to make the story seem more
spicy, you would boil an egg for me,
and there was cold corn bread IN the
cupboard.
"Such stories, Mrs. Jamesworthy,
may seem highly amusing to an inno-
cent bystander, and I have no doubt
they would make a great hit if written
up and printed in London Punch, but
there is something wrong with my
sense of humor, or am at the wrong
end of the stories. Anyhow, I can't