"FUSSY" FATHERS.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 5, Issue 225, 10 November 1916, Page 1 (Supplement)

"FUSSY" FATHERS.

WHAT THE CHILDREN THINK

By ONE WHO HAS GROWN UP.

They leapt into my compartment a few minutes before the train started, says a writer in the London Daily Mail. They were, indeed, almost thrown in by a flurried heated little man. A pretty girl of about sixteen and a sturdy boy of fourteen. When the door was shut the little man violently beckoned the boy to pull down the window. The girl grimaced in a sort of stoicism; the boy grunted and pulled down the window; the "heated man stood on the footboard and thrust his face in the carriage. "You've caught it," he gasped; " but you didn't deserve to. You always cut things to the last moment. You get it from your mother."

The girl glanced at me, her cheeks flushed. "Oh, father," she remonstrated, "you must admit that you kept us on the platform five minutes while you studied the indicator, even though the inspector told you it was No. 4 platform."

"Don't argue," snapped the heated man. "As I've told you a thousand times, it naver does to trust other people. Always do a thing yourself.' "But we could have found out at the hairier, dad," suggested the boy "Give me back that ten shillings," shouted the heated man. " Give it back at once, sir, I say. GIVE IT BACK AT ONCE, SIR."

Tha tioy groped in dismay in his pockets. The'train began to move; he was afflicted with butter-fingers. The heated man had to drop off the footboard. The train quickened pace. The heated man ran alongsida the compartment. "GIVE IT BACK AT ONCE, SIR," be yelled. " GIVE IT B -" He was left behind.

I had already turned to ray paper and protended not to have ears. For half an hour we rattled on, and then 1 passed tha boy a magazine. I caught the girl's eye; she broke out smiling. I smiled in return. "Oh, 1 felt so ashamed," sho said. "I don't know what vou must have thought ot father."

"I thought nothing at all," I answered. "He was obviously flurried. And, moreover, I'm a father myself. We're a curious race when we're put out."

"You may not believe it," said the girl, almost defiantly, "but he's the kindest and dearest father in the world. Isn't he, Jim?" "We all are —when we're feeling well," I said sympathetically. • • • • The girl laughed again. Shebeeamo communicative and friendly. " It's only when he's flurried that he's like that, isn't it, Jim?" Jnn nodded—ho was evidently an un'oquacious youth. "And he only gets flurried at times liko this. Catching trains, or seeing his family off by trains, always flurrus him. And, oh! when he has to do anything in th? house he gets worked up so that you would hardly know him." " Remember the washer on the bathroom tap ?" asked the laconic boy. "Oh, don't remind me of it," cried the girl. " 'Member when the dog get twisted up on his chain in his kennel ?" asked the boy. "Oh! Jim, wasn't poor dad awful then?'" " 'Member when he had to put tha» cook out?" "Yes, Jim, and the night when the pipes burst!" The girl seemed still anxious to exonerate the heated man. "Really," she said, "ho is the most generous and good-tempered father except when there is anything to do. Dad simply hates having to do things." "All fathers do," I assured her. "And when he has to do them he does them with a sort of morbid frenzy —and doesn't seem able to endure his own family." "Same here," I said. "I shall never forgot the night when the Summer Time started an 1 dad went round tho house putting the clocks on.' " Cruras!" said Jim, behind his magazine.

"Oli, it v.as awful. We all got to bed thai night at two o'clock. Dad worked himself up into such a star,e that if mother dared she would have sent for the doctor. He had had his watch syn-syn-syn-sometlung or other

"Synchronated?" I suggested. "Yes. synchronated that day in tho City, and all the clocks had to 'sync - or whatever it is—at the same time. Dad's like that. Usually K> doesn r bother about tho clocks at all. The hall clock's always been ten or twelve minutes out one way or another. But having to alter the clocks set him on to them. It was not only that night. Oh, it lasted weeks I And it eided with him getting into such a passion with the hall clock that it, foil on ham. That was a terrible night."' li Crikey!" said Jim. • • • "And now," continued the girl, "w* are all counting the weeks and drea ling the day when dad will have to put the clocks" bac.i again. . . You know what putting clocks back is at the best of times " " T do," I said ; " I did it once." "What happened?" sh\? asiced eagerly.

"The littlo hand broke off There will lip half ii million little hands off Ht two minutes past midnight on October the iii>t. But why worry now? You've got five weeks yet." •'Oil, von don't know dad!" said the Siil- ' . "No, th:it he doesn't," said Jim. "Dad's getting ready even now," she " \ow.'"

"Yes. It's frightening mother int.) an illniss. It's hanging over us all like (i doom. Mother's sending us away fo" this holiday—we've had one already simplv he-'nus' she says we will have to keep our strength up. Dad's already 1 n.|frh' a hook about clocr-;. He's ;, , : . km'ly two three-anil-sixpennv •ha; he ealls 'experimental' !„i 'i Di-aetise putting hack upon, ..'.id ' ■ 's broken one of thorn. He does '.. I, 0 spare bedroom. Hi calls it n.l .'. , : , ;ogy,' and forbids us to go in l ■ ! ' ~ r> . ~-lmps hv five weeks hence. I , .'] ■ ■ comfort her, "your father , • lon nit how to put a flock ■ ?" . . ■ 1 r] .. j think *o." she said sadly. il f.i'ue down to dinnnr the other

night looking dreadful. His fingers were cut and " He sat on the broken glass that had got in his clothes!" said Jim. Tlia girl shivered. " Yes, and he was white as death. (Mother told me that he has taken to muttering about clocks in his sleep lately.) And then lie triad to eat a little, and then he suddenly thiw down his knife and fork." "Didn't the dog jump!" said Jim. "And solemnly cursed the House of Commons for the Summer Time Act, and cursed the man who first made clocks, and said that even a professional clock-winder who could perjure himself by saying that he ever put a clock back without breaking it ought to be shot at dawn."

"And didn't he give it to i.e"? said Jim. "Yes. But it was Jim's own fault. He knows when dad's like that" it's best not to speak, but only to look miserable and sympathetic. Jim suggested to dad that if, when the night comes, dad doesn't try to sat the clocks back, but sets them forward eleven hours it would do the trick. Of course he oughtn't to have used words like 'do the trick' to dad." " Crums! Didn't he let me have it!" said Jim, suddenly talkativa. "Y.ui young scoundrel,' he said, 'how dare you talk about "tricks" to me? There'« only one way of doing things, and* it's the right way.' And then he only just missed me, didn't he, Cis?" "Hush!" said the girl. "Poor dad, ho was awfully tired and worn out. But I ask you," she turned to ma, and I could swear there was a tear in her eye, "if he's like that now, what wi'l he be like on the night? I don't know who you aire. I don't knovv whether you have any influence. Perhaps you are an M.P. ? If so, please do, oh! dq use your influence with the Gc vernment to pass a law making Summer Time last for ever, or else a law that on October the first all clocks must be pu« on another hour and not back."