s a toadstool!

Or, as another saying goes: "Happiness after marriage is like the soap
in the bath-tub; you knew it was there when you got in."

Man's clothes are ugly, but the styles change gradually. A judge on
the bench may try a case lasting two weeks, and his hat will not be
hopelessly behind the times when it is finished. A man can stoop to
pick up a fallen magazine without pausing to remember that his front
steels are not so flexible this year as they were last.

He is not distressed by the fear that some other man may have a suit
just like his, or that the neighbours will think it is his last year's
suit dyed.

We women fritter ourselves away upon a thousand unnecessary things.
We waste our creative energies and our inspired moments upon pursuits
so ephemeral that they are forgotten to-morrow. Our day's work counts
for nothing when tested by the standards of eternity. We are unjust,
not only to ourselves, but to the men who strive for us, for
civilisation must progress very slowly when half of us are dragged by
pots and pans.

A house is a material fact, but a home is a fine spiritual essence
which may pervade even the humblest abode. If love means harmony, why
not try a little of it in the kitchen? Better a perfect salad than a
poor poem; better a fine picture than an immaculate house.

The Year of My Heart

A sigh for the spring, full flowered, promised spring,
Laid on the tender earth, and those dear days
When apple blossoms gleamed against the blue!
Ah, how the world of joyous robins sang:
"I love but you, Sweetheart, I love but you!"

A sigh for summer fled. In warm, sweet air
Her thousand singers sped on shining wing;
And all the inward life of budding grain
Throbbed with a thousand pulses, while I cling
To you, my Sweet, with passion near to pain.

A sigh for autumn past. The garnered fields
Lie desolate to-day. My heart is chill
As with a sense of dread, and on the shore
The waves beat grey and cold, and seem to say:
"No more, oh, waiting soul, oh nevermore!"

A sigh for winter come. No singing bird,
Nor harvest field, is near the path I tread;
An empty husk is all I have to keep.
The largess of my giving left me bare,
And I ask God but for His Lethe--sleep.

The Average Man

The real man is not at all on the outskirts of civilisation. He is
very much in evidence and eve