HOW TO GET EVEN WITH DAN'L. 



My Dear Phoeby : When I read your 

 letter in April Recreation, in which you 

 said you wanted to get even with Dan'l, my 

 heart went right out to you, and, before I 

 had finished reading your tale of woe, I had 

 made up my mind to write you a letter and 

 give you a few pointers. 



Your husband is an amateur photogra- 

 pher. Why don't you start in and be an 

 amateur artist? My wife is one, and when 

 I tell you some of the experiences I went 

 through, before she got onto her job, I 

 think you will be able not only to get even 

 with Dan'l, but go him one better. Yea, 

 Phceby, you can make him wish he had 

 never seen a kodak. 



I've been married now close on to 20 

 years, and have been hungry a good deal of 

 that time; for my wife was an amateur artist 

 when we married. 



I didn't mind it so much at first, when I 

 would go to the table and find the cream- 

 pitcher full of turpentine, and Chinese white 

 in the sugar-bowl. Nor did I kick when I 

 went on a hunting trip, and found my cof- 

 fee-can full of Vandyke brown. Of course 

 we went without our coffee, on that trip, 

 but I just let it go, and called it one of the 

 " little annoyances of married life." But, 

 when it came to the pictures, it got worse. 



First, she painted flowers and hung them 

 up in our bed-room. Of course I had to 

 admire them and say they " looked all 

 right," — and they did — at night, — after the 

 lights went out. 



Next came landscapes, which covered our 

 sitting-room walls. Wife was delighted 

 with them, and asked if I did not think she 

 was making rapid progress in her work. I 

 said yes, and that they were wonderful pict- 

 ures — and they were. 



After that she made a painting of my 

 favorite horse, and nailed it on the dining- 

 room wall, just opposite my place at the 

 table. Matters were, now getting worse. 

 It made me feel kind of faint-like, and I 

 nearly lost my appetite; but managed to 

 stand it, though I was awfully afraid some 

 member of the Society for the Prevention 

 of Cruelty to Animals would see the pict- 

 ure, and have my wife arrested. 



But the horse picture wasn't in it with the 

 next one. She painted a portrait of our 

 little boy, and hung it just over my gun- 

 rack. The boy was an awful nice little fel- 

 low, and of course we were very proud of 

 him. Folks said he looked just like his 

 father. This pleased me— till I saw that 

 picture. 



I tell you, Phceby, matters were now get- 

 ting serious. It made me sick; but I had 

 to brace up and admire the picture. I said 

 it was just splendid, and a whole lot more 

 lies. I was so used to lying, now, that I 



didn't mind it much; yet I began to realize 

 " What a tangled web we weave, when first 

 we practice to deceive." Oh! Phceby, it's 

 a fearful thing when a fellow begins to tell 

 lies to a woman; for he never knows when 

 to stop. And then she has such an incon- 

 venient way of remembering all he says. 



Yes; I felt awful sick when I saw the 

 picture, and I tried to forget it. I said to 

 myself, " it couldn't look like the boy." 

 But, the next day, a lot of alleged artists 

 came to see the painting. 



I went into the next room, and left the 

 door ajar so I could hear what they said, 

 and oh, Heavens ! I heard, you bet ! 



" Isn't it just lovely? " 



; ' Perfectly splendid! " and, 



" He has that peculiar expression of face, 

 just like his father." 



That settled it for me. I said if I had any 

 expression on my face like that, I would go 

 and drown myself. 



I went out to the barn, sat down on a bale 

 of hay, and cried. My poor old horse — the 

 one my wife had so tortured in the picture — 

 came and rubbed his nose against my shoul- 

 der; while Tiger, my old coyote dog, lay 

 down at my feet and whined. They seemed 

 to catch on to the situation, and I guess old 

 Tiger feared his picture would come next. 



I tell you, Dear Phceby, these were try- 

 ing times for me, and I felt the need of 

 friends and advice; but I was too proud to 

 seek my friends here at home. I came near 

 writing to Ruth Ashmore, or Mrs. Sang- 

 ster, of the Ladies' Home Journal, or to 

 some other paper that has a column of ques- 

 tions and answers for people in trouble — 

 and other idiots. But I didn't feel quite 

 well enough acquainted with Ruth, or the 

 other girl either, so I comforted myself with 

 the thought " all things come to him who 

 waits." And I didn't have to wait long, 

 either; for, the next week, my friend from 

 Denver came down for a hunting trip. We 

 were in the house getting ready for a start 

 when Frank said to me : 



" What, old boy ! Are you thinking of 

 going on a kangaroo hunt? " 



" Kangaroo nothing ! What made you 

 think so?" 



" Well! " he said, pointing to the picture 

 above the gun-rack, " I saw that map of 

 Australia, and thought you might be plan- 

 ning such a trip." 



I wanted to yell right out for joy, but my 

 wife was in the next room, and I feared she 

 would hear me, and ask what I was laugh- 

 ing at. She is awful sensitive about her 

 pictures. So I motioned Frank to keep 

 still, and whispered to him that I would 

 explain when we got outside. 



Then I told him the " map of Australia," 

 as he called it, was my wife's painting of 



71 



