I have been wandering about to-day in an apparently aimless fashion, but in reality “musing upon many things.” Our horror of shiftlessness, and our realization of the responsibilities of life, and of the important work Providence has kept saving up for us, or perhaps “growing up” for us, like Dick Swiviller’s future mate, is expressed in the fact that if we take an hour’s leisure, anywhere betwixt sunrise and sunset, we feel under bonds to explain the matter not only to our own souls, but also to those other souls who live adjacent, and take an everlasting interest in ours.

Consequently, I told myself this day that I was not well—that I had been overdoing, and that I had best “go easy for a spell.” After which concession to my interior governor, I proceeded to apologize to my neighbors; to call my dogs—not to apologize to them, but to solicit their company—and then to hie me away to the lake, remembering to walk feebly as long as I was in sight.

I didn’t go down to the beach, but plunged into the cool, comforting heart of a ravine; fathomed its depths, with a feeling of delightful seclusion, and came out on the thither side, to find myself in the glowing October woods.

Ill? I never felt better in my life! Good, rich streams of blood coursed through my veins, and painted a warm tint in my cheeks. At that moment I hope I looked a trifle like Nature, who was in the height of her being; in a sort of tropical luxuriance, like a beautiful woman at the very summit of maturity and perfection.I put out my hands toward a clump of sumach—I was not cold, but its brilliant warmth lured me as does a glowing fire. It permeated my very being, and set my soul a-throbbing.

There had been rain, and then warmth, and October had caught all the prismatic colors of the drops of water, and was giving them forth with Southern prodigality. The birds bent over the swaying daisies, and sang soft love-notes into their great, dark eyes, while I looked on in an ecstasy of wonder and delight—the gold of the daisies, the gold of the sunlight, and the glow in my heart, seeming in a way all one—part and parcel of the munificence and cheering love of the Father. It is a glorious world, and it is glorious to live therein. The very air about me—the air I was breathing in, seemed to palpitate color and brilliant beauty.

I talked to Duke about it, and he looked around him with a certain air of admiration depicted on his noble, fond old face. Fanchon was frivolous, as usual, and wanted to be running giddily about, hunting rabbits and the like; but I made her sit beside me, for it seemed a desecration every time the October silence of those woods was broken by aught save the dropping of a ripened nut, or the whirr of a homing bird.

It was at the close of this mellow day that I sat in my library alone, before a hickory fire. Alone, did I say? Nay, Mrs. Simpson sat before me in the opposite rocker. You could not have seen her, or heard her, but she was there, and was complaining of Mr. Simpson, saying he rarely ever invited her to go anywhere; and as she talked I recalled a certain evening when I had been her guest—included in an invitation to attend a spectacular entertainment given by the country club, at a spot some distance from our homes, and I said:

“Mrs. Simpson, I can offer you some recipes which I warrant you will work infallibly; but they are like the recipe for determining the interior condition of eggs, which says, put them in water; if they are bad they will either sink or swim—I have forgotten which. Now try this recipe I am about to give you, and it will either make Mr. Simpson unwilling to take a step in the way of recreation without you, or it will make him stalk forth by himself, as lonely as a crocus in early March—I have forgotten which; but try it often enough, and you will learn.”

Recipe.

“Fail to be ready at the appointed time, and keep him waiting until he is either raging or sullen; cudgel or dragoon the children until their tempers are well on edge. Then complain of the gait taken by Mr. Simpson in order to catch the train; declare frequently when aboard that you are tired out, and are sorry you came. After you reach the place, remark every now and then that you don’t think the entertainment amounts to much, and that you do think it was a piece of extravagance to have given such a price for tickets to so-inferior an exhibition. Next, declare that you feel a draft, and are catching your ‘death of cold;’ interlard all this with frequent directions to the children—admonitions and complaints, and derogatory remarks about Mr. Simpson’s appearance, and wonder—oft-expressed and reiterated, and put in the form of questions which you insist upon his answering, as to why he didn’t wear his other suit of clothes. Finally, wind up the whole affair, by wishing you were in bed, and announcing your opinion that the trip didn’t pay, and you are sure it will make you and the children ill.

“Try this faithfully, and it won’t fail to accomplish something decided.”

One more recipe.

I was talking to Mrs. Purblind now; Mrs. Simpson had had her fill, and gone home; and Mrs. Purblind had taken her place.You couldn’t have seen her—but that doesn’t matter.

Recipe.

“This is for making a man love to stay at home with you, and inducing him to be cheerful and companionable, or for making him flee your presence as one would flee a plague-stricken city: I’ve forgotten which, but you will soon discover, if you try it persistently.

“Talk on disagreeable themes, talk persistently and ceaselessly; never let up; the more tired he may be the more steadily you must talk, and the more irritating your theme must be. Go to the gadfly; consider her ways and be wise. Buzz, buzz, buzz; sting, sting, sting.

“On his worst nights, always select his relatives for your theme; harp upon their faults; their failures in life; their humiliations; the unpleasant things people say of them. Then if he waxes irritable, express surprise; remind him how he used to talk against these same relatives, and how much trouble he gave them when he lived at home; add that it’s plain now that he has combined with his relatives against you, and that you should be surprised if he and they didn’t effect a separation. If he is still in earshot, pass on to what he once told you, beginning each remark with:

“You said that——

“And then proceed to point out wherein and howin he has utterly failed to make good his promises. Further, if he is still in the house, enlarge upon the change you have noted in his conduct toward you—how devoted he used to be, and how selfish he has become. Next, tell him how well-dressed other women are, and how little you have on.

“By this time, if not sooner, he will remember that he has night work clamoring for him at the office, or that his presence at the club is absolutely necessary, and it would be well for you to conclude your remarks by observing that if he bangs the front door so hard every time he goes out, he will loosen the hinges.”

“Well now,” said Mrs. Purblind—the invisible Mrs. Purblind (she always would listen to reason, which is more than could be said for the visible creature of that name), “well now, I know well enough when I go on that way, that it isn’t best to do it; but the Evil One seems to enter me, and I get going, and I couldn’t stop unless I bit my tongue off.”

“Bite it then,” I said, “and after that, jump into the lake; were you once there, your virtues would float, and your husband would love them; but alive, your virtues are beneath water, and your nagging is always on top.”

“But what is one to do? Supposing all these things are true—supposing you suffer from all these wrongs.”

“Did you ever right a wrong by setting it before your husband in this way, and at these times?”

“No.”“Did you ever improve your condition?”

“No. But what would you do?”

“Shut up. Dip deep into silence. In the first place, when you find you have poor material, take extra care in the cooking; study the art; use all the skill you can acquire, and finally, if that won’t do, if it positively won’t—if you can’t make a decent dish out of him, open the kitchen door, and heave him into the ash-barrel, and the ash-man will cart him away.”

I have traveled a little in my life, and have been entertained in various households. I have seen wives who deserve crowns of laurel, to compensate for the crown of thorns they have worn for years; but I have seen others, who had thorns about them indeed, but they themselves were not on the sharp end. Some of these stupid, ignorant women fancied they were doing everything possible to make home pleasant, and wondered at their failure. There they sat, prodding their husbands with hat-pins, and grieved over the poor wretches’ irritability.I recall a conversation I once overheard. The husband arrived just at dinner time. The wife heard him come in, and called to him in a faint, dying voice, from the top of the stairway—

“George, is that you?”

The answer was spiritless.

“Yes.”

The wife came downstairs.

“Well, then, we can have dinner. I don’t know that it’s ready, though; Bridget has had a toothache all day, and she’s just good-for-nothing.”

All this in the same faded tone of voice.

The husband passed into the parlor, and began to read the paper.

The weary tongue of his feminine partner wagged on, in a dreary sort of way.

“I think these girls are so foolish; they haven’t a bit of pluck. I’ve been trying to persuade her to go to the dentist’s and have her teeth out, but she won’t. I’m just tired to death to-night, and there’s no end to the work; Bridget has been moaning around all day—why her teeth——”

“Oh, bother her teeth!”

“Why, don’t you care to hear anything that goes on at home, George?”

“I don’t care to hear about teeth that go on at home; Bridget’s teeth especially. I don’t care a rap for the whole set.”

“How cross you are to-night, George! when I’m so tired, too. Johnnie, your face is dirty, go and wash it; be quick now, for it’s time for dinner. I don’t know that Bridget will ever call us. She’s probably sitting out in the kitchen, nursing her teeth; why she has five roots there, and all of them so inflamed that——”

“Bother her roots, I say!”

“George, you are extremely irascible, but that’s the way; I get no sympathy at all.”

“Not when you want it by the wholesale for Bridget’s roots.”

“Well, what should we talk about? I don’t see how we can ever have conversation in the home, if you won’t listen to anything.”

And so they went on—the tired husband, moody and irritable, and the tired wife, loquacious about matters of no interest. I felt sorry for her who spake, and him who heard.

A husband worn out with the cares and worries of an unsatisfactory business day, and a wife harrassed and fretted by overwork and petty annoyances, could succeed in talking pleasantly together only by the use of will-power and principle. It would require a big effort, but the effort would pay. It would be one of the best investments a married pair could make. The returns would be quick and large. I wonder more don’t deposit in this bank.