Genius and his Wife.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1583, 1 April 1887, Page 3

Genius and his Wife.

Mr Higgins entered the kitchen, and there found hit wife in the act of lamming potatoes for dinner. "Abigail," he said impressively. | (Awed by his tone, she stood, potatomasher poised in the air, and asked anxiously, u What is it ? " " We have just written a poem (Mr Higgins had become so used to the editorial 'we' that he seldom spoke for himself alone), and we will read it to you," taking the manuscript from his pocket "Oh, is that all," gasped his wife, drawing a breath of relief "All!" be snarled, unfolding the Saper, ■ isn't it enough ? How much o you suppose a man can do in a day, acting in the numerous and varied capacities that we do 1 This morning we tried three cases of chicken-stealing, preached a funeral sermon for old Tom Waite, wrote an article on the silver question—you shall hear it this even* ing—and composed this poem." Straightening out the paper, he stood with compressed lips, glaring at his wife as she went on with her work. The magnetism of his gaze affected her, and she looked up. " Mrs Higgins, are you going to lis* ten, or are you not ?" he asked in freesing tones. " Yes, dear," she pleasantly answered, reaching over the table for a spoon. "Ahem! "I would not die in the spring-time, Of all tinea of the year. I would my lait rest—" " Confsund it! I say, Mrs Higgins, stop the infernal scraping of that kettle, will you." glaring on her again. "Yes, William, I'm through now—continue." "Where was I?" "I don't know, some—"

" Don't know! Of course yon don't. Didn't hear a word I said, I soppote. Whit do you think I read this for ? New, tell me, Mrs Higgius, just what your thought* on the subject are." "Be—because you want to," said his wife, timidly. "Exactly, precisely, without a doubt," returned Mr Higgins with aw'"al irony, " for my own selfish gratification, of course. Well, permit me, madam, to undeceive you. Ido it for your own good, for your literary well-being—-do you understand? Now listen," he thundered. Mrs Higgins tip-toed to the cupboard for a fork with which to turn the steak, her husbands' eyes following her like fate, and when she was again at rest be resumed—- " I weuld n 7 'ast retting place be made, When the earth's lest gay an 1 dear, Bat would I die in the summer, The mtridu n of the year, When bi da and flowers— " " Mrs Higginr, do yon care a red cent when I die,'' he howled, and she started to more around to the open. " When birds and flowers are retiming Our Ut#B and our hearts to cheer. No, but I would that in " "William," wailed Mrs Higgins, •' the bread is burning. I smell it." " Just like your condemnabie sordid spirit to tbink of bread and your bodily want", when I am giving your soul food." Mrs Higgins turned the bread out on the table, burnt black, bottom and and, hearing a sigb, she posed for ibe rest " No, but I wonld that in autumn To earth farewell I might say, Twonld be sweet tadie with the flow'rs, And beneath them peacefully lay. An expressive pame ensued. Mr Higgins looked smilingly and expectantly at his wife, waiting for applause; but she was g zing into vacancy and spoke not. " Well," growing impatient, ■ what do you think of it r" he asked. "We never can eat it," thinking only of her bread. " Eat it, eat it, who wants to eat it 1 Are you crazy, madam? No, not crazy, only coarse, gross, earthy —a ciod ! Do you ever think of anything but what you are going to eat ? Have you a soul, the most minute, indescribable, atom of divinity about you ? " ilt is very good," faintly interposed Mrs H '2j.il*, recalled to a sense of duty.

■ Good, it it! Th«t is precisely the remark I have heard for the last six years. Good ! Madam, do yon know what it is to damn with faint praise ? Do you know what it is to quench the ardour of genius by applying to its productions an adj«?ctiv«» that is only applicable to mediocrity ? Do you—" but, with a lofty wa?e of the hand, dismissing from bis consideration anything so sordid and obtuse, he commanded, " Put on the dinner."