I could not have done this a few years ago, but now I can. Never, until I undertook the management of my business affairs—never until I had some knowledge of business cares and anxieties, the weight of notes falling due; the charge of business honor to keep; the excited hope of fortunate prospects; and the depression following hard upon failure and disappointment—never until I learned all this, did I realize what home should mean to a man, and how far wide of the mark many women shoot, when they aim to establish a restful retreat for their husbands. I have returned to my domicile, after a fatiguing day up town, with a feeling of exhaustion that lies far deeper than the mere physical structure—a spent feeling as if I have given my all, and must be replenished before I can make another move. I once had a housekeeper whose very face I dreaded at such times. She always took advantage of my silence and my limp condition, to relate the day’s disasters. She had no knowledge of what a good dinner meant, and no tact in falling in with my tastes or needs. On the contrary; if there was a dish I disliked, it was sure to appear on those most weary evenings. In brief, from the very moment I reached home, she did nothing but brush my fur up, instead of down, and I did nothing but spit at her. Now, many women are like this housekeeper. I wonder their husbands don’t slay them. If you would look out in my back yard, I fear you would see the bones of several of these tactless, exasperating housekeepers, bleaching in the wind and rain. I marvel that other back yards are not filled with the bones of stupid, tactless, irritating wives. The fact that no such horror has as yet been unearthed, bears eloquent testimony to the noble self-control and patience of many of the sterner sex. “Oh, that sounds well,” said my neighbor, over the way, “but then you forget we women have our trials too.” “Is it going to diminish those trials to make a raging lion out of your husband?” “No, but he ought to understand that we are tired, and that our work is hard.” “Certainly,” I said, “by all means; and by the time he thoroughly understands, you generally have occasion to be still more tired.” “Well, what would you do?” “I’ll tell you what I’d do; follow the advice of a sensible little friend of mine, who has four children all of an age, and has incompetent service to rely on, when she has any at all.” “And what is that, pray?” “She says that come rain, hail, or fiery vapor, she takes a nap every day.” “I don’t know how she manages it; I can’t, and I have one less child than she, and a fairly good maid.” “Her children are trained, as children should be; the three younger ones take long naps after luncheon, and while they are sleeping, she gives the oldest child some picture book to look at, and simple stories to read, and she herself goes to sleep in the same room with him. The little fellow keeps as still as a mouse.” “I think that is a cruel shame.”