IN the spring the joyous husband hangs the carpet on the line, and
assaults it with a horsewhip till its colors fairly shine; and the dust
that rises from it fills the alley and the court, and he murmurs, ’twixt
his sneezes: “This is surely splendid sport!”
In the spring the well-trained husband wrestles with the heating stove,
while the flippant-minded neighbors go a-fishing in a drove. With the
pipes and wire he tinkers, and his laughter fills the place, when the
wholesome soot and ashes gather on his hands and face; and he says: “I’d
like to labor at this task from sun to sun; this is what I call
diversion—this is pure and perfect fun!”
In the spring the model husband carries furniture outdoors, and he gaily
helps the women when they want to paint the floors; and he blithely eats
his supper sitting on the cellar stairs, for he knows his wife has
varnished all the tables and the chairs. Oh, he carries pails of water,
and he carries beds and ticks, and he props up the veranda with a
wagonload of bricks, and he deftly spades the garden, and he paints the
barn and fence, and he rakes and burns the rubbish with an energy
intense, saying ever as he labors, in the house or out of doors: “How I
wish my wife and daughters could suggest some other chores!”
In the spring this sort of husband may be found—there’s one in Spain,
there is one in South Dakota and another one in Maine.
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