Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 42, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 November 1888 — HEN-PECKED [ARTICLE]

HEN-PECKED

frMr. and Mrs. Peter Pocklehurst had l be«n married just about three years when Joe Claxton came to visit them—and it was no stretching of the truth to say that they lived as happy as linnets in a nest. Nothing ever went wrong. In short, the Pocklehurst cottage was as fair a repremay be supposed to exist. Until—but we must not get in advance of our story. “My dear,’’said Mr. Pocklehurst one evening to bis wife, “Claxton is coming to visit us. Joe Claxton, you know, my old college chum. His wife is away from awhile, and Joe kindly takes advantage of the opportunity to renew our old friendship.” “How nice,” said Mrs. Pocklehurst, dimpling and beaming. “I’ll get the green room ready for him at once. I always do love to entertain your friends, Peter.” “You’re a duck, my love,” said Mr. Pocklehurst, with a tender, conjugal kiss. But Mr. Claxton had not been a sojourner under the roof of Ivy cottage more than a week before Mrs. Pocklehurst discovered that he was, so to speak, the firebrand in the camp. “My dear,” said her husband one morning, “do you really think you need that new silk? Claxton says he does not allow his wife to have one oftener than once in two years, and, if you remember rightly, you have had four silk dresses since we were married.” Mrs. Pocklehurst bridled indignantly. “Really,” she said, I should imagine this to be a matter quite foreign to Mr. Claxton’s affairs.” “Joe’s a very old friend, you know,” apologized Mr. Pocklehurst, half alarmed at bis own temerity. “And Joe thinks, my dear, that we manage matters after a very extravagant pattern here —about the housekeeping, you understand!” “Indeed!” said Mrs. Pocklehurst. “Not that I’m at all disposed to bl&me you, my love,” added the husband, “but you’re youngyou know, and inexperienced —and Claxton says six pounds of butter a week for our small family is too muchl And the butcher’s bills, my dear! Claxton says ” But Mrs. Pocklehurst bounced out of the room nature could endure no more. “How I pity Airs. Claxton,” she said to herself, as she beat up the eggs for custard. It was only the next day that she was in her tiny conservatory, snipping off passe verbenas and dead geranium leaves, when Mr. Pocklehurst and his friend paused in their walk directly under the windows, and the mingled fumes of voices and cigar smoke floated up to her two senses oi smelling and hearing, “It’s all nonsense, you know,” said Mr. Claxton. “Women need to be driven with a tight rein. It does ’em good. There’s no tyrant like a domestic tyrant, you’ll find. What does the marriage service say? ‘Love, honor, and obey.’ Eh? And I make Mrs. Claxton understand I am her master.” “I want to know,” said Mr. Pocklehurst, admiringly. “But as to my Penelope, now • “It’s rather late to begin, I know,” said Mr. Claxton, “but the sooner you make her comprehend that woman is the inferior sex the better. Make a point of not letting her have her own way in anything. Lay down the law and make her live up to it. And—” “Stop!” uttered a clear, melodious voice at this instant, as Mrs. Pocklehurst, with the conservatory scissors yet in her hand and righteous indignation glittering from her eyes, stood in their midst. “There are two words to this bargain. No wife of any spirit will stand by and allow her husband to receive counsel such as this. Peter,” to her husband, “either Mr. Claxton leaves this house before the sun is down or I do. Take your choice.” “My dear—” “I’m quite in earnest, Peter. My home has not been the same since this man crossed its threshold. You are learning through his tutelage to distrust me, to regard me with different eyes. Our heretofore married life is quite forgotten when flung into the scales against this man’s insinuations. Which shall it be, Peter, that you prefer to love, Mr. Clhxton, or me? Choose, and choose quickly.” “Soe,” faltered Jffr. Pocxlehurst. "I — I guess you'd better go. I do, really.” "“Just as you please,” said Mr. Claxton, with dignity. 9ohe Went. “Peter,”' appealed Mrs. Pocklehurst, “you’re hot vexed wjth me?” “vexed with you, my darling! I’m vexed that I 6ter allowed yonder plausible mischief-maker k> come info our house.” “I should like to see Airs. Claxton,” said Penelope, reflectively. “I shouldn’t,” said Mr. Pocklehurst. “A pobt, craven apology for a woman she must be!” ‘‘They live at Swampsey, don’t they?” “And Swampsey is only five miles from Lesliefield, where your sister Matilda, whom we are goihg to visit in the spring, is settipd?” queried Mrs. Pocklehurst. “1 believe so.” “exactly,” said Mrs. Pocklehurst. “Wen, let’s drive over some day and call on the Claxton’s. I don’t think I ever felt such a curiosity to see any woman in my life. Ido pity her sincerely.” And in the spring, when the Pocklehursts were visiting sister Matilda, Mrs. Penelope reminded her husband of his intention. “Well, well, just as you say,” said he. “Claxton?” said a farmer, of whom they paused to inquire the way; “Claxton? Ain the the fellow as has a woman's . right woman for a wife, and is hen-pecked awful?” “Oh, dear, no!” interposed Mrs. Pocklehurst. “Quite another sort of person.” “There ain’t but one Claxton livin’ anywheres round here," said the son of the doll, “Tall man, with blue spectacles, and kind o’ squints with one eye ” "Exactly," said Mrs. Pocklehurst, eagerly. “Just over there,” said the man, indicating a dreary -looking red brick house