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A Word for Father. -----

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A Word for Father. [BY THE MAN IN THE STREET.] I; s about time someone put in a word for f •;•?! oJrj man," he said, sharply, when I had loio lurn of the early autumn discussions of vvor'ians place in the world, and the heroism of Iwr work in the home. There's been a bit too nvieh cracking up of women lately, and it s time the man got a show. The way were going on we're coming co petticoat government, and that isn't good for a healthy full-grown nation where men have to do most of the work. Women are generally useful, aud some of them are ornamental, but they'd get on badly without the men. They seen; to know it. too, for the most advanced woiran's-righter thinks she has a right to a man for herself first, and she's jolly well dis- appointed if she don't get him. One of the papers had an article the other day on bhould Women Obey ¥' They should, but they don't. They used to, but they grown out of it, and it's all owiug to this pampering of them, this talk of woman's mission, her aims in life, and her claim to a vote and a share in the Government. 'What is home without a mother ?' says the cracker motto. But you never hear anyone singing What is home without a father V Though I'll be bound it's a jolly sight worse off than the home that s got him. I'm putting in a word for father every time. h It makes me tiredfto hear all the talk about woman s cares, her patient labour, her loving toil with the babies, and her long- suffering and endurance. We know all about it, and quite admit it, but it ain't necessary to drum it into our ears every time the clock goes round. I dare say she has to get up early and see the old man's brsakfast. is all right; but he has to gobble it down and rush for town, and go through a day gasping for chances to make a bit, so there may be a home at all. He don't have time to sit round giving afternoon teas, or to take a siesta after lunch. He's too busy preventing some- one else from getting ahead of him in the procession, and looking round for an extra profit to pay for his heroic wife's new hat nnd dress. Man has a soft, easy time, these days, hasn't he, popping into bars, sitting round in clubs, smoking Bolivors, and killing tie till he's due home to dinner ? Oh, yes, it's all Ascot week, and six winners a day with him, isn't it ? And the poor woman has to sit moping at home, eh, with a weight of woe on her chest, and care making furrows on her forehead. That's what you have to believe if you read the Married Misery,' the Should Women Obey V and the "What is Home Without a Mother V controversies. I'm not having any. Oh, yes, I daresay children are trying, and they wear their boots out in a week, and they kick up a row when mother wants to be quiet, and the servant girls are very impudent, and the neighbours aren't always friendly, and there's the butcher and the baker and the grocer and the milkman to be settled with, and so many things to sew and mend, and see to, and I daresay woman does them very well as a rule, and get's tired doing em. But there's no special heroism in all that. It's all very well telling me that the foot that rocks the cradle rules the world, but what about the hand that got the money to buy the cradle she has to rock ? Hasn't that, something to do with it ? And whose hand is it ? Why, the poor, despised old man's, for whom no poet ever writes a verse of praise, and no silly season correspondent ever shouts. Don't think I'm disparaging women I admire most of them, and I love- some of them. But it worries me a bit to think that all this praise should be spilt over woman just for being proud of her home and fond of her children. Too much praise isn't good tor woman, bhes a blessing and acom- often, but it's as well to regard her as a blessing in disguise. Man must have the power. It's with power as with a gun- he may not want to use it for years, but when he does need it, he needs it mighty bad and close handy. Give the home-woman the idea that she's a bigger figure in the world than the old man, and where's his power coming from ? Why, of course. Domestic life is trying, 1,0 doubt, fur the woman. It's jolly hard lines for her to have to spend the hours of the afternoon doing fancy work till she con- tracts a headache through her stern devotion to duty. It wrings your heart to see her trudging round paying calls till she's fit to drop. It brings tears to your eyes to see her tear herself away with a sigh from a gossip with the neighbour over the garden fence to get the old man's supper ready against he comes home fresh and sprightly from his ten hours in the mill. The pathos of it appeals to my feelings as warmly as a mustard plaster. But hasn't a man his home trials a well as his business ones ? Isn't he entitled to a bit of haven of rest 1 And it's the foot that rocks the cradle that stirs him up when he gets there. The voice that sings the lullaby pours into his ears the story of the misdeeds of Mary Jane, and soothes his resting hours with complaints as to the conduct of the little boys next door. While he's turning over in his mind how he shall manage to raise the rent, she turns the after-supper conversation on to the necessity for a larger house, and makes known that she is ashamed to Tave Mrs. Jones, of Blair Lodge, call on her in such a box of a place. When these devices of heroism are exhausted there is the shabbiness of her wardrobe to discuss, and the fact that she hasn't had a new dress for six weeks assumes the magnitude of a grievance, and it becomes a crying shame that she can't take the children to the seaside for a month like other people. No, sir, some votnen can brighten every other home but their own, and they feel it's no good having a man in the house of nights if his brain can't, be made a warehouse for all the domestic worries of the day. He may be wondering who'll go bail for him at the bank to tide over the bills which are just falling due, he may be worrying about the fall in prices and the rise in taxes, he may be wrinkling his brow thinking over the school fees and the clothing accounts, but if little Tommy has been rude to his mother the foot that rocks the cradle stamps it into the old man s brain. It makes you mad, doesn't it, when you go home in a bad temper ana find people there you have to be civil to 1 Pa and ma-in-law, most liuely, till you wish you had married an orphan. You young men think you know everything till you come to be fotty, and then you begin to wonder if the old uijin didn't know some- thing after all. Give me the woman who has your slippers warming in the fireplace, and the easy cushion ready for your head, and your bits o' comfort all prepared, who doesn't talk about the servant question, and smacks little Tommy on her own account, and doesn't want to garnish your evening meal with a sharp sauce of the day's griev- ances. The man with a wife like that goes to the city with a clear head and courage enough to take Port Arthur, and if there were more of them there would be fewer dis- cussions abeut married misery," and Is marriage a failure?" If each helped the other to go easy there would be fewer accidents. It's always better to walk and catch the next train than to run and miss this one. Of course, you'll get me into trouble if you tell them all I've said the women will howl at me, and the men won't support me. But when it comes to heroism in everyday domestic life it's a bit sickening to see the Victoria Cross always awarded to the woman. She deserves it, bless her, I've no doubt, just as much as man does, but generally they ought to wear it turn about. 4 What is home without a mother,' eh ? Well, you know, there must be a father first. Sp-orting Chronicle.

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