APPRECIATION.

Kaipara and Waitemata Echo, 12 August 1920, Page 3

APPRECIATION.

By Walt Mason,

There are about ten million wives who do their endless chores ; they spend the gray years of their lives at sweeping wooden floors. They start their weary round at dawn, and toil tho long day through, and when the hours of light are gone they still havo things to do. From task to endless task they tread, and swat the household flies, and bake large loaves of luscious bread, and rows of dn>;zling pies.

Ten million husbands come at night to thoir respective homos, with thoughts of 801 row or delight in their respective domes. They seat then... selves in easy-chairs, serene aud amply fed, until the striking: clock declares it's time to go to bed. They see all lound the evidence of women's toiU some days ;it should appeal to every sense, and draw a word of praise.

But they aro uaod to things like that, and so they pass thorn by, and talk about tho neighbor's cat that stole a pumpkin pie. I hey talk about tho baseball score, about the pretzel crop, and do not see he shining floor that knew th' 3 broom and mop. Sometimes ten million wives break down, from heartacho of tho years, aud wail and weep and nearly drown in their own scalding tea; a.

Then all the husbands stand aghast, and wonder what is wrong ; oh. ivhy tins cataclysm vast with teardrops flowing strong ?

The wholo thing looks to them ab surd, that women sigh and weep ; and wives are dying for a woid of praise, and praise is cheap.

A man might «ay, on going home, which wife has made so neat; "Well, Jane, you'vo made the place a pome. d heavenly retreat!" Then he would

see the shadows fade from out her oyos of blue, and she'd look like the blushing maid that he aforetime know.

We all aro starving for the praise that stingily is doled; we need it more than victor's bays or all the Midas gold.

The digger with his rusty spade, who toi.'a with laggard step, will swifter ply his humble blade, and show more kinds of pep, if some one, passing him, has cried : "How well you dig that hole |" The words have stirred his latent pride and warmed his old gray soul.

With words of praise we make things go as angels might desire ; there is no man so high or low that praise will not iuspire. It smooths the rugged road we tread and makes the Pilgrim swear th« sun is shining overhead, though only clouds bu thero.