Sauce for the Gander
A busy merchant was about to leave his home in Brixton for a trip on the Continent, and his wife, knowing his aversion to letter-writing, reminded him gently of the fact that she and the children would be lonely in his absence and anxious as to his welfare from day to day. Kissing him affectionately, she said:
“Now, John, you must be eyes and ears for us at home and drop us an occasional post-card telling us anything of interest. Don’t forget, will you, dear?”
The husband promised. The next morning his wife received a postal-card: “Dear wife, I reached Dover all right. Yours aff.”
Though somewhat disappointed she thought her husband must have been pressed for time. Two days later, however, another card arrived, with the startling announcement: “Here I am in Paris. Yours ever.” And still later: “I am indeed in Paris. Yours.”
Then the wife decided to have a little fun and seized her pen and wrote: “Dear husband, the children and I are at Brixton. Yours.”
A few days later she wrote again: “We are still in Brixton.”
In her last communication she grew more enthusiastic: “Dear husband, here we are in Brixton. I repeat it, sir, we are in Brixton. P.S.—We are, indeed.”
In due time her husband reached home, fearing that his poor wife had temporarily lost her senses, and hastened to ask the meaning of her strange messages. With a winning smile she handed him his own three postal-cards.