“Good-bye, little woman!” I sing out cheerily to my wife as I pass down the hall. She comes to the door to see me off. Sometimes, perhaps, a man will find his adieu on an occasion of this kind responded to uncordially, not to say frigidly, or perhaps not at all. But he must not grieve deeply over it or let it act as an excitative of his mean moroseness or angry passion. Think the thing all over. You are to be far away from home. Why should not the thought of the vacant chair--next to that of the demonstrative and exacting baby at meal time--rise up and sadden your wife? Can you wonder at her distant bearing as she foresees how she will sigh “for the touch of a vanished hand”--on the coal scuttle and water pail? Of course, she will “miss your welcome footsteps”--carrying in kindlings, and the “dear, familiar voice”--calling up the chickens. And so you cannot in reason expect her invariably to answer your kindly _adios_ in a gladsome, gleesome, wholly satisfied sort of way. But never you go away without the goodbye on your part--the honest, manly, loving-toned good-bye that will ring in her ears in your absence and cause her to fancy that perhaps you are not such a selfish old bear after all. With some of us men--only a limited few, of course, and we are not inclined to think over and enumerate them--it is unhappily the case that We have cheerful words for the stranger, And smiles for the sometime guest; But oft for our own the bitter tone, Though we love our own the best. “will miss your welcome footsteps.” [Illustration: 0134] Now, if such men only thought How many go forth in the morning, Who never come back at night! And hearts are broken for harsh words spoken, Which time may never set right, what a different atmosphere might permeate the domicile on “first days,” to say nothing of the rest of the time! The real fact of the matter is, men and brothers, we do not accurately appreciate the objections which the domestic partners may entertain against our occasional outings. For my part I verily believe they are largely, if not entirely, prompted by the feeling that There's nae luck aboot the hoose, There's nae luck at a'! There's nae luck about the hoose, Since oor guid mon's avva'. And here we go on thinking it is purely a matter of petty petulance and small selfishness on their part! Come, gentlemen, let us once and for all rightly appreciate the situation and resolve to do better in the future! But let us return to our sheep. My hand is on the door knob, when, pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat, is heard the tread of tiny feet. It is Ted, my little two year old, coming to say good-bye to papa. I take him up and sing gaily: Bye, baby bunting, Papa goes a-hunting,