XLIV.
THANKING GOD FOR A GOOD HUSBAND.
About one hour of the twenty-four would perhaps be the proportion of
time a woman ought to spend upon her knees thanking God for a good
husband. When I see the hosts of sorry maids, and women wearing
draggled widow's weeds who fill the ranks of the great army of the
self-supporting; when I see them trooping along in the rain, slipping
along in the mud, leaping for turning bridges, and hanging on to the
straps in horse cars, I feel like sending out a circular to sheltered
and happy wives bidding them be thankful for their lot. To be sure,
one would rather be a scrub-woman or a circus-jumper than be the wife
of some men we wot of, but in the main, a woman well married is like a
jewel well set, or like a light well sheltered from the wind.
XLV.
JUST A LITTLE TIRED!
What a grubby old stopping place this world is, anyway. How hard we
have to work just to keep the flesh on our bones and that flesh
covered, even with nothing better than homespun. And we are getting a
little tired of it all, aren't we, my dear? Just a little tired of the
treadmill, where, like a sheep in a dairy, we pace our limited beat to
bring a handful of inadequate butter. We have trudged to and fro about
long enough, and have half a mind to throw up the contract with fate.
But hold on a bit. There is something worse than too much work, and
that is idleness.
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