HOME, SWEET HOME.

Temuka Leader, Issue 2456, 26 January 1893, Page 3

HOME, SWEET HOME.

Mr and Mrs Boliver Pyke has been married about 0 weeks, and were still oppressively happy. Not a ripple of discord had stirred the frog-pond of life had run as smoothly and as anthem domestic harmony, and their obstructively as a Chicago baseball club’s progress down the toboggan slide. If there was anything that could have made Boliver happier he didn’t know what it was, unless, possibly, it was to hear that his tough, leathery, grasping old uncle in California had gone to the good world ; while the addition of 40 more cupboards and closets to the house could hardly have added to the felicity of his young wife. This may sound like exaggeration, but you have positively no idea how unreasonably and absurdly happy these two young persons were. It was an evening in May—an ordinary evening in May, 1890 and tl)e rain hadn’t stopped. It was falling aa it fell on the flay uf the suoond month of the (iGOth year of the life of one Noah, and in sheer despair the Signal Service man had begun to predict wet weather. ‘ Bueuavista,’ said Boliver, looking abstractedly about the roony 'jf it woudn’t be asking f.qo, gve.gr a faV.or.~-i 1 * \Yhflt it is, dear, 1 , "'asked' slra fyke tenqeriy'.'' '' ' ■ ‘. Please try the other knee awhile. This one is getting tired.’ ‘ You have never said anything like that before, Boliver,’ she protested, reproachfully. ‘Perhaps I’d better go and j sit un a chair.’ ‘Now dqnH' Qct Jy)iiy, curling. You don’t look so pretty wfion you f-rovv^.’ ‘ I’m not frooming, Bolivia ‘You certaiqly Vd'h, lWc»- ‘ Then j 'dhh’t' .vista.’ pVlputd,' um- * .. pretty V she ex- . i--~ ' •cing up and seating herself lect away. ‘ All right, Mr Pyko. j You —you —.you’re getting tired of me, 11—I—wish I was— ’

‘ Now, look here, Buenavista, don’t be foolish. There nothing to quarrel about.’ ‘ I’m not quarrelling, sir ! I’m not going to quarrel either. If there’s anything of that kind done, you will be the one who does it, Mr Pyke.’ ‘ I’m glad to hear it, my dear.’ ‘ You needn’t call me your dear. I’m not your dear any more.’ ‘ I thought you said you were not going to quarrel.’ . • ‘ I did, sir, and lam not. In spite of your conduct, Mr Pyke, I am still your loving wife.’ ‘ Then, dearest— ’ ‘ No, sir, I am not your dearest.’ ‘ Well, Buenavista, then—if you prefer it—if you are still my loving wife, wont you please sing something F ‘ What for 1 Are you afraid PH try to sit on your knee again. You neednt.’ ‘ No, no, Buenavista, I thought it might clear up the atmosphere of this room a little. That’s all.’

With the aspect of a martyr going cheerfully to the stake, Mrs Pyke went to the piano and sat down beside it. ‘ What shall I sing,’ she asked. ‘Perhaps h’m perhaps it would make things more cheerful if you should tackle “ Home, Sweet Home.” ’ Mrs Pyke fixed her eyes on a spot near the ceiling where the wall paper didn’t exactly match, and wailed out the touching melody. ‘ “ Mid plea-a-asures and pa-a-laces, tho-o-ough” I know well enough, Mr Pyke, you have only asked me to sing this to make me appear ridiculous, but I’m going to do it! “we may ro-a-am, Be it e-e-eve-e-er so ” —I think any man who tries to make his wife appear ridiculous, never, never cared anything for her place like ” I have always done everything I could to make home pl-pl-pleasant and you, you know it —“ home. A cha-a-rm from the ski-i-ies seems to ” seem like the ghastliest mockery in the world, but you would haveit—‘ha-a-alio-ow us the-e-re, which se-e-ek through the wo-o-orld is never m-e-et wi-i-th else-whe-e-re. Ho-o-me, ho-me, —sw —” I’ll sing it through if it kills me—“ sw-e-eet, sw-e-eet home ; there’s no-o-o place like” —ain’t you ashamed of yourself, Boliver Pyke, to sit there pretending you care anything about our homo any more or me either I —“ho-o-me ; there’s no-o-oo place like”—Boliver, dear, I can’t. Yet, I will! I will! ho-o-me V’ ’

As her quavering voice sounded the last word of the song, a manly voice joined in with a deep bass, her trembling little fingers were gathered in. a close grasp, her sank on Boliver’s shoulder, and But what business has any outside barbarian to be intruding here ! Let us retire—Chicago Tribune.