COMMUTER'S WIFE 197 



except the caged wild bird that, grown too feeble 

 even to struggle, sits crouching on the perch, and 

 with dimming eyes looks through the bars toward 

 the sky. 



I have led quite a virtuous and commendable 

 existence these past months ; in fact, ever since 

 the great storm quenched, for the time being at 

 least, the outward manifestation of my gardening 

 passion and forced me indoors, face to face with 

 the domestic occupations of a commuter's wife in 

 a snowy winter. Now we are pruning the fruit 

 trees by degrees, and the days are lengthening. 

 Thirty more of them will bring hotbed making, and 

 the garden is again beginning to lure me in 

 thought. I've devoted a fair share of my days to 

 my fellow-beings and the before-mentioned scan- 

 ning of hospital donations. I've made personally 

 and carefully certain concoctions that the sick but 

 respectable poor, with traditions and pasts, associ- 

 ate with a self-respecting convalescence, and have 

 taken my wares to the hospital for special cases. 

 It has always been one of my pet amusements to 

 watch people eat the things they enjoy, from chil- 

 dren drooling over a lump of sugar upward. 

 Mouths have so many different expressions; even 

 Bluff's lips look dry and contracted when his meal 



