HENRY WILSON

FICTION

A

With his family beaming idiotically at him from their places around the breakfast table, Henry Wilson opened the black and gold gift boxes. His broad face lit up with a smile as he read the Father's Day cards, dramatically snapped the gay cords on the boxes and lifted the lid of the largest with a flourish.

On the faces of the givers there was inanity and smugness: this year for sure, dear old Dad would get what he wanted. They waited for dear old Dad to haul forth his loot so they could all exclaim how clever they had been in ferreting out his wishes.

However, the more conscious of those present could not help but notice that dear old Dad had commenced a new but interesting series of color changes from ashen to purple to a lovely green while he stared down into the box.

"What's the matter, dear?" asked his wife. For answer, she took the box from his nerveless fingers and looked. "Why-that's not what I bought! Oh, dear! Open the other two-good heavens! I don't blame you for being shocked. That was supposed to be a nice new bathrobe, not a-a.. ." She waved a misty black peignoir in the air. She didn't know the name of the garment, but recognized it as a coordinate for the nightgown accompanying it.

"I wonder what sort of a person would wear something like this?” she asked. Mrs. Wilson was partial to deshabille of chenille robe cum flannel pajamas (pique in summer).

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