Year: 1866


The little straw Of everyday habit, float
ing slowly and silently down the stream
of life, shows very plainly which way tbs
tide sets. And when Mrs. Purple says,
with groan, ''NIy husband never spends
his evenings at home," it is natural to in
quire within ones self why it is that Mr..
Purple finds other resorts so much more
attractive than the household altar.


Il don't see why he can't be a little
more domestic - says Mrs. Purple.


Well, why is it? There is a reason for
everything in the world say philosophers,
and there must be a reason for this.


In the first place, Mrs. Purple is one of
those unfortunate housekeepers whose
work is never done. There is always some
thing dragging room to be swept
lamps to be trimmed-fretfuI babies to be
put to sleep, while one eye is on the broil-
ing meat and the other on the muddy foot
print unwittingIy left by Mr.. Purple on
the doorstep. t'There, Purple, I knew just
how it would be. I wonder if you know
the use of a scraper or door-mat. I should
think after all the time I've spentin clean
ing up"


And Mrs. Purple goes off into a monoto-
nous recapitulation of her troubles and
trials, that has all the effect of a lullaby
upon the baby, however trying it may be
to the feelings of the baby's father.


Moreover, Mrs. Purple, with all her
Cleaning up" does not understand the
elementary principles of keeping house
neat. Things are always Ground in the
way;'' table-covers put on awry; curtains
torn away from their fastenings and pin
ned up until Mrs. Purple can .''fnd time"
to re-adjust them. Somehow it looks for
Iorn, and desoIate, and unhomeIike when
the master of the house comes in at night.
Mr.. Purple, man-Iike, can't tell where the
defect Iies-he don't analyze the chill that
comes over his heart as he crosses the
threshold-he only knows that ''things
don't look ship-shape." And so he takes
his hat when his wife's back is turned and
sneaks ANONYMOUSLY OF, glad to get away
from the dead-aIive fire, the dusty room,
and Mrs. Puppies tongue. Who can blame
the man? Mr.. Purple may be ''lazy," and
Careless y and "selfsh;" very likely he is
most men have a tendency that way
but nevertheless he don't like to be told Of
it over and over again, in that persistent,
illogical sort of way that reminds you of
an old hen running from side to side in her





in the same place every seven seconds!-
Mr.. Purple naturally wonders why his
wife don't occasionally allude to the few
good qualities he happens to possess! Mr.. |
Purple has every inclination to be happy
at home, if his betterhalf would only give
him chance.


OF all the eetly-tinted pictures of do
mestic happiness that we find in the pages /
of Holy Writ, there is none that suggest
more quiet comfort than Abraham sitting
in his tent door, sin the heat of the day."
under the shadow of the palm trees of
Mamre. Depend upon it, the good old
patriarch never spent his evenings away
from home. He didn't believe in Just 60
ing across the plains to Lots house," or
'srunning over to SOdom to hear the news"
No, Abraham liked to sit quietly by his
tent door, and very likely Mrs. Sarah
would come and lean over his shoulder
and chat with him after the Oriental fash
ion! We have the very best of testimony
for knowing that she was very amiable
under the ordeal of unexpected compa-
nv when 'sthe calf tender and good" was
dressed, and the "three measures of fine
meaI'' baked on the hearthl


The idea of looking beyond the sphere of
home for enjoyment is at the root Of many
of our modern evils. Home should be the
very center and sanctuary of happiness;
and when it is not, there is some screw
loose in the domestic machinery! If you
want to surround a young man with the
best possible safeguards, don't overwhelm
him with maxims and homilies as to what
he is and is not to do, but make his home
happy in the evenings. Let him learn that
however hard and cruel the outside world
may be, he is always sure of sympathy
and consideration in one place! Woe be
tide the man, whatever his lot or position,
who has in his heart of hearts no memory
of a home where the sunshine never faded


out and the voices We're always sweet
Were he as rich as Rothschild, he is poor
man!