is, she wins not only his admiration, but that which is
vastly better--his respect.

If she hates to be considered a prude and gives him the kiss, he is
very sweet and appreciative at the time, but later on he confides to
his chum that she is a silly sort of a girl, without a great deal of
self-respect!

There are two things that the average man likes to be told. One is
that his taste in dress is exceptional; the other that he is a deep
student of human nature and knows the world thoroughly. This remark
will make him your lifelong friend.

Again, the real man will put on more agony when he is in love than is
needed for a first-class tragedy. But there's no denying that most
women like that sort of thing, you, dear dainty feminine reader, being
almost the only exception to this rule.

But, resuming the special line of thought, man firmly believes that
woman cannot sharpen a pencil, select a necktie, throw a stone, drive
a nail, or kill a mouse, and it is very certain that she cannot cook a
beef-steak in the finished style of which his lordship is capable.

Yes, man has his faults as well as woman. There is a vast room for
improvement on both sides, but as long as this old earth of ours turns
through shadow and sunlight, through sorrow and happiness, men and
women will forgive and try to forget, and will cling to, and love each
other.

The Book of Love

I dreamt I saw an angel in the night,
And she held forth Love's book, limned o'er with gold,
That I might read of days of chivalry
And how men's hearts were wont to thrill of old.

Half wondering, I turned the musty leaves,
For Love's book counts out centuries as years,
And here and there a page shone out undimmed,
And here and there a page was blurred with tears.

I read of Grief, Doubt, Silence unexplained--
Of many-featured Wrong, Distrust, and Blame,
Renunciation--bitterest of all--
And yet I wandered not beyond Love's name.

At last I cried to her who held the book,
So fair and calm she stood, I see her yet;
"Why write these things within this book of Love?
Why may we not pass onward and forget?"

Her voice was tender when she answered me:
"Half child, half woman, earthy as thou art,
How should'st thou dream that Love is never Love
Unless these things beat vainly on the heart?"

The Ideal Man

He isn't nearly so scarce as one might