T THIRD

In the Stream

I

Mrs. Milton Caukins had her trials, but they were of a kind some people
would call "blessed torments." The middle-aged mother of eight children,
six boys, of whom Romanzo was the eldest, and twin girls, Elvira Caukins
might with justice lay claim to a superabundance of a certain kind of
trial. Every Sunday morning proved the crux of her experience, and Mrs.
Caukins' nerves were correspondingly shaken. To use her own words, she
"was all of a tremble" by the time she was dressed for church.

On such occasions she was apt to speak her mind, preferably to the
Colonel; but lacking his presence, to her family severally and
collectively, to 'Lias, the hired man, or aloud to herself when busy
about her work. She had been known, on occasion, to acquaint even the
collie with her state of mind, and had assured the head of the family
afterwards that there was more sense of understanding of a woman's
trials in one wag of a dog's tail than in most men's head-pieces.

"Mr. Caukins!" she called up the stairway. She never addressed her
husband in the publicity of domestic life without this prefix; to her
children she spoke of him as "your pa"; to all others as "the Colonel."

"Yes, Elvira."

The Colonel's voice was leisurely, but muffled owing to the extra heavy
lather he was laying about his mouth for the Sunday morning shave. His
wife's voice shrilled again up the staircase:

"It's going on nine o'clock and the boys are nowheres near ready; I
haven't dressed the twins yet, and the boys are trying to shampoo each
other--they've got your bottle of bay rum, and not a single shoe have
they greased. I wish you'd hurry up and come down; for if there's one
thing you know I hate it's to go into church after the beginning of the
first lesson with those boys squeaking and scrunching up the aisle
behind me. It makes me nervous and upsets me so I can't find the place
in my prayer book half the time."

"I'll be down shortly." The tone was intended to be conciliatory, but it
irritated Mrs. Caukins beyond measure.

"I know all about your 'shortlies,' Mr. Caukins; they're as long as the
rector's sermon this very Whit-sunday--the one day in the whole year
when the children can't keep still any more than cows in fly time. Did
you get their peppermints last night?"

"'Gad, my dear, I forgot them! But really--", his voice was degenerating
into a mumble owing to the pressure of circumstances, "--matters of
such--