Year: 1866

The little straw of every day habit, floating
slowly and silently down the stream OF life,
shows very plainly which way the tide SETS
And when Mrs Purple says, with a groan,
My husband never spends his evenings at
home, it is natural to inquire within ones self
why it is that Mr.. Purple finds other resorts SO
much more attractive than the household altar!


II don't see why he can't be little more do
mestic, says Mrs. Purple.


Well why is it} There is reason for every
thing in the world say philosophers, and there
must be reason for this.


In the first place, Mrs Purple is one Of those
unfortunate housekeepers whose work is never
DONE There is always something dragging-.a
room to be swept, lamps to be trimmed-tretful
babies to be put to sleep, while one eye Is ON
the broiling meat and the other ON the muddy
footprint unwittingly left by Mr. Purple, on the
doorstep, ''There, Purple, | knew just how it
would be. wonder if you know the use OF q
scraper or a door mat. | should think after all
the time I've spent in cleaning up"


And Mrs. Purple goes off into monotonous
recapituation of her troubles and trials that has
the effect Of lullaby upon the baby, however
trying it may be to the feelings Of the babys
father.


Moreover Mrs. Purple, with all her "clean-
ing up" does not understand the elementary
principles Of keeping house neat Things are
always round in the way - table-covers put on
awry dust ashes under the crate; curtains torn
away from their fastenings and pinned up until
Mrs. Purple can find time" to readiust them.
Somehow it looks forlorn and desolate, and un-
homelike when the master of the house comes
in at night Mr.. Purple, manlike, can't tell
where the detection lies 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 igno-
miniously off, glad to get away from the dead
alive fire, the dusty room, and Mrs. Puppies
tongue. Who can blame the man? Mr.. Pur-
pie may be lazy" and careless" and ''sel-
fish, very likely he is-most men have ten
dency that way-but nevertheless he don't like
to be told Of it over and over and over again, in
that persistent, illogical sort of way. that re-
minds you of an old hen running frolh side to
side in her coop, and poking her head through
the bars in the same place every seven seconds
Mr. Purple naturally wonders why his wife does
not occasionally allude to the few good qualities
he happens to possess Mr. Purple has every
inclination to be happy at home, if his better
half would only give him chance.


Of all the sweet-tinted pictures Of domestic
happiness that we find in the pages of Holy
Writ, there is none that suggests more comfort
than Abraham sitting in his tent door ''in 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 going across
the plains to Lots house, or running over to
Sodom to hear the news" No, Abraham liked
to sit quietly by bis tent door, and very likely
Mrs. Sarah would come and lean over his shoul-
der and chat with him after the Oriental fash
ion We have the very best of testimony Tor
knowing that she was very amiable under the
ordeal of unexpected company" when tho
calf tender and good was dressed, and the
three measures Of fine meal baked on the
hearth


The idea of looking beyond the sphere of
home for enjoyment is at the root of our modern
evils. Home should be the very centre and
sanctuary of happiness and when it is not,
there is some screw loose in the domestic ma
chinery If you want to surround young man
with the best possible safeguard, don't over
whelm 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 conside
ration in one place! Woe betide the man,
whatever his lot or position, who has in his
heart of hearts no memory of home where the
sunshine never faded out and the voices were
always sweet. Were he as Rothschild, he is q
poor man.