tacks, and kept it up until
even the docile Pauline Augusta was driven to revolt against so
persistently being the Pale-face captive. She announced that she was
tired of being scalped. So, for variety's sake, the boys turned to
riding and roping and hog-tying one another like the true little
westerners they were, and many an imaginary brand was planted on many
a bleating set of ribs.

But now they are gone, and I've been thinking a great deal about Olga.
I fancy I have even been envying her a little. She's of that annealing
softness which can rivet and hold a family together. I've even been
trying to solace myself with the claim that she's a trifle ox-like in
her make-up. But that is not being just to Olga. She makes a perfect
wife. She is as tranquil-minded as summer moonlight on a convent-roof.
She is as soft-spoken as a wind-harp swinging in an abbey door. She
surrenders to the will of her husband and neither frets nor questions
nor walks with discontent. I suppose she has a will of her own, packed
somewhere away in that benignant big body of hers, but she never
obtrudes it. She placidly awaits her time, as the bosom of the prairie
awaits its harvesting. And I've been wondering if that really isn't
the best type of woman for married life, the autumnally contented and
pensively quiet woman who can remain unruffled by man and his
meanderings.

I wasn't built according to that plan, and I suppose I've had to pay
for it. I've just about concluded, in fact, that I would have been a
hard nut for any man to crack. I've never been conspicuous for my
efforts at self-obliteration. I've a temper that's as brittle as a
squirrel bone. I'm too febrile and flightly, too chameleon-mooded and
critical. The modern wife should be always a conservative. She should
hold back her husband's impulses of nervous expenditure, conserving
his tranquil-mindedness about the same as cotton-waste in a
journal-box conserves oil. Heaven knows I started with theories
enough--but I must be a good deal like old Schramm, that teacher of
Heine's who was so busy inditing a study of Universal Peace that his
boys had all the chance they could wish for pummeling one another. But
I've been thinking, Reuben. And I'm going to see if I can't save
what's left of the ship. I'm no Renaissance cherub on a cloudlet, but
I'm going to knuckle down and see if I can't jibe along a little
better with my old Dinky-Dunk. I've decided to back off and give him
his chance. I