a hurt
that has been given in words. There's nothing you can say which is
more manly or which will do you both so much good as the simple
"forgive me" when you have been wrong.

Rest assured, gentlemen, that you who spend the most of your evenings
in other company, and too often find fault with your meals when you
come home, are the cause of many sorrowful talks among the women who
are wise enough to know, even though your loyal wife may put up a
brave front in your defense.

How often do you suppose the brave woman who loves you has been
actually driven in her agony to some married friend whom she can trust
and upon her sympathetic bosom has cried until she could weep no more,
simply because of your thoughtless neglect? How often do you think she
has planned little things to make your home-coming pleasant, which you
have never noticed? And how often do you suppose she has desperately
fought down the heartache and tried to believe that your absorption in
business is the reason for your forgetfulness of her?

Do you ever think of these things? Do you ever think of the days
before you were sure of her, when you treasured every line of her
letters, and would have bartered your very hopes of heaven for the
earthly life with her?

But perhaps you can hardly be expected to remember the wild sprint
that you made from the breakfast table to the street-car.

Transition

I am thy Pleasure. See, my face is fair--
With silken strands of joy I twine thee round;
Life has enough of stress--forget with me!
Wilt thou not stay? Then go, thou art not bound.

I am thy Pastime. Let me be to thee
A daily refuge from the haunting fears
That bind thee, choke thee, fill thy soul with woe.
Seek thou my hand, let me assuage thy tears.

I am thy Habit. Nay, start not, thy will
Is yet supreme, for art thou not a man?
Then draw me close to thee, for life is brief--
A little space to pass as best one can.

I am thy Passion. Thou shalt cling to me
Through all the years to come. The silken cord
Of Pleasure has become a stronger bond,
Not to be cleft, nor loosened at a word.

I am thy Master. Thou shalt crush for me
The grapes of truth for wine of sacrifice;
My clanking chains were forged for such as thee,
I am thy Master--yea, I am thy vice!

The Superiority of Man

Without pausing to inquire why sa