GOING HOME.

Auckland Star, Volume LVIII, Issue 211, 7 September 1927, Page 6

GOING HOME.

Have you ever watched people going home? Almost you cut read in their faces what the day has been; almost by their attitude you can tell what they expect at home.

In tram* the men who are not hidden by a newspaper, or eagerly, boyishly playing in theory football, tennis, cricket or golf, let their features relax and give their faces a rest. Their tired line* grow deeper; anxious furrows increase— disappointment dims drooping eyes, and going home to-night means for that one the chronicle of a worse state of things—a chronicle he well knows will be received with heart-breaking courage and sympathy by the " home " partner.

The man next to him is a garden enthusiast— a bundle of cabbage and onion plant* tell* his story to the world. Going home means more to him than perhaps to any person in the tram. Hi« beloved" is his garden now. Never in his courting days, his honeymoon days has he been so eager to get home. A fretful voice greet* the garden stuff, "Goodness, Jim, you're not going to garden again to-night?" but Jim is halfway into his garden coat, and argument is useless.*

Two girls and a strap-hanging youth are goin? joyously home. Life ie splendid. *Gus i* bringing a pal who will make the quartet complete. After tea there is some jaunt or other with the crowd. The day has had plenty of work, hard work, and a full share of petty vexations for everyone of them—but it is " home " time, and each heart swells with content.

A handsome girl with an anxious, hunted look, her lips set in a bitter line, is going home only because she must. Dad is drinking again, and home is just plain bell and no illusions anywhere. The girl beside her is fragile, tired out with the long day's standing, but she dreams with a fare full of contentment; there will be a letter at home, a long, satisfying letter, full of many dear things he had been too self-conscious to sav.

A book worm peep* now and then into a fresh new book; then shut* it and fondles it as hj leans back, tasting already the joy* of his favourite chair and a long congenial evening.

Streaming along are those who walk home. Mostly they are happy and jelly; they quickly walk off the cares of the day There are group* of men who have walked to town together for year*. They have even waited at the street ends for one another like big school boys. Fine friendships those, but what blanks come in later when this one and that one falls out—when the "going home" means a last trek!

In the country what a varied home going roe see. A weather-beaten, toil-scarred man with a weary, desolate-faced wife turns his wagon towards home. In the back are two large crates of indignant pigs, grunting and squealing. A third and smaller crate has been sacrificed at a grudging mart—the farmer must have a little cash, bjt the pigs sold have not paid for their pollard, and God only know* the work crating and uncrating the residue of pigs made. A country "going home" I have always hated to see was mother at sport* day, races or picnic collecting the "milkers" at a little after three o'clock—just when the fun was highest and hardest to leave. Thank goodness those days are nearly over. Wh it with motors to get dairy folk quickly home and milking trainee to help the labour when thav £ct there, t':«y can stay almost n» late as other folk. ' —g. EDITH BURTON.