WHEN FATHER CARVES. 



281 



•gilded the bare and cheerless room; under 

 .the magic touch of love it has grown to a 

 palace, where she reigns queen and he her 

 most willing subject. It is but a small 

 part of what he owes to her, his more than 

 friend and comforter, to those willing 

 hands, that brave heart that never failed 

 or faltered in the darkest hours, that up- 

 held his sinking spirit in the hour of 

 despair. 



The rooms are empty, the guests are 

 gone, but he does not miss them. No 

 need of guest, no need of the soft perfume 

 and bright glances of beautiful women, the 

 fulsome praise of men bowing enviously 

 to his success, to fill the rooms, for with 

 arm thrown around. the form he loves so 

 well, the shining brown hair resting 

 against his shoulder, he feels her heart beat 

 against his breast as they stand smilingly 

 Histening to the soft patter of childish feet 

 coming nearer and nearer, till the little 

 nvhite robed figure bursts into the room 

 and throws itself on him, clinging half in 

 mischief, half in affright, to his coat as it 

 gazes back in triumph at the pursuing 

 nurse who stops hesitatingly at the door. 

 How his heart beats with happiness as the 

 little one, with dimpled arm around his 

 neck, the other caressing his cheek, nes- 

 tles in his arms, while the mother looks 

 up into his face with a world of love and 

 pride for both father and child. His clasp 

 tightens, he draws both closer to him, and 

 with the bright curls of the child mingling 

 with his beard he bends over and presses 



a reverent kiss on the upturned lips of 

 the mother. 



Again his thoughts wander. The pecu- 

 liar odor of the sick room greets his nos- 

 trils; around him are the numberless 

 dainty things that tell of woman's presence. 

 How he remembers them all; the delicate 

 hue of the walls, the pretty pictures, the 

 bright mirrors, the dressing table with its 

 sparkle of cut glass and silver; his picture 

 in its heavy setting enthroned among it all; 

 the escritoire in the corner, each pen and 

 pencil, each letter, each scrap of paper in 

 place; the little table and work basket be- 

 neath, cluttered with the work — no, not 

 vyork, but love's sweet pastime; the dainty 

 little rocker, that seems still to retain the 

 impress of that form which now lies be- 

 neath the silk and lace of the carven bed. 

 Against the lace he sees those delicate 

 fingers, scarcely less white. The pale face 

 is turned toward him: something blurs 

 his sight. He springs to his feet; a tiny 

 flame leaps up on the hearth, he draws his 

 hand impatiently across his eyes; at his 

 feet lie the broken fragments of his pipe. 

 He raises his eyes above the mantel; the 

 face alone is distinct and the eyes gaze into 

 his mockingly. The little flame in the 

 hearth gives one convulsive leap and is 

 gone, the ashes are dead. The door opens 

 and slams. 



The cold light of the coming morn steals 

 in through the curtains and lights up the 

 face that smiles cruelly at the broken pipe 

 and the empty chair. 



WHEN FATHER CARVES. 



THOMAS S. PEMBERTON. 



We all look on with anxious eyes 



When father carves a duck. 

 And mother almost always sighs 

 When father carves a duck. 

 Then all of us prepare to rise 

 And hold our bibs before our eyes 

 And be prepared for some surprise 

 When father carves a duck. 



He braces up and grabs a fork 



Whene'er he carves a duck, 

 And won't allow a soul to talk 



Until he's carved the duck. 

 The fork is jabbed into the sides, 

 Across the breast the knife he slides, 

 While every careful person hides 

 . From flying chunks of ducj^. 



The platter's always sure to slip 

 When father carves a duck; 

 Oh, how it makes the dishes skip, 



Potatoes fly amuck! 

 The peas and jelly leap in space, 

 We get some gravy in our face, 

 And father mutters Hindu grace 

 Whene'er he carves a duck. 



We then have learned to walk about 

 The dining room and pluck 



From off the window sills and walls 

 Our share of father's duck. 



While father growls and blows and jaws; 



He swears the knife was full of flaws. 



But mother jeers at him because 



He couldn't carve a duck to save his 

 soul from China. 



—Exchange. 



