SATURDAY NIGHT.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume X, Issue 1, 7 January 1893, Page 19

SATURDAY NIGHT.

There is a restful sound about the mention of Saturday night. Io the rich man who lolls about all the week, trying to make the slow hours pass somehow, it may not mean much ; but to the man who works ten hours a day for six days out of the seven it has a significance. It means rest. It means going to bed without setting the alarm clock so that it will ring out and get the bouse astir at five o'clock. To the busy toilers in our factories and workshops, Saturday night comes as a blessed relief—a break in the weary monotony. The loose ends of the week's work are gathered up. The housewife sets the goodly array of eatables in the cupboard, and thinks, "To morrow I will rest.’ She draws her basket of mending towaid her with inward satisfaction, and darns the stockings and sews on the buttons with a sense of relief. She will rest to-morrow !

The children will put away their toys and their schoolbooks, and gather round the tire to read the New Zealand graphic, and look at the pictures. Saturday night ! No more work for thirty six hours ! Thirty-six hours of sixty minutes each I No more money making, no fretting, no business caies, no trying to make books balance—nothing but rest !

The husband is tired ; he has worked hard. He has earned the rest which is coming. He puts on a clean shirt, combs his wet locks, and sits down to the supper which labour has given him the right to eat, and the ability to eat without killing him with indigestion. And the way the viands disappear is a sight to make a dyspeptic howl with envy. On Saturday night our friends drop in, and talk over the news, and tell ns what is in the papers, and compare notes on the weather, and give us a detailed history of the way Aunt Maria had the toothache, and what the dentist said, and how- L’ncle John had an attack of intluenza, and what cured him.

And we urge them to stay longer, for it is Saturday night, we tell them ; and we walk down to the gate with them, remark on the beamy of the night, and wonder if it will rain to-morrow.

And we go to bed, tireO but happy, and reflect that we can lie in bed till we really have rested, for to morrow is Sunday, and Sunday is the day of rest.