Yet the harmless humbug made him happy. I wonder
if ten years hence she will laugh at such old humour, if ten years
hence he will take such clumsy pains to put her cape about her.
Experience shakes her head, and is amused at my question.
I would have evening classes for the teaching of temper to married
couples, only I fear the institution would languish for lack of
pupils. The husbands would recommend their wives to attend,
generously offering to pay the fee as a birthday present. The wife
would be indignant at the suggestion of good money being thus
wasted. "No, John, dear," she would unselfishly reply, "you need
the lessons more than I do. It would be a shame for me to take them
away from you," and they would wrangle upon the subject for the rest
of the day.
Oh! the folly of it. We pack our hamper for life's picnic with such
pains. We spend so much, we work so hard. We make choice pies, we
cook prime joints, we prepare so carefully the mayonnaise, we mix
with loving hands the salad, we cram the basket to the lid with
every delicacy we can think of. Everything to make the picnic a
success is there except the salt. Ah! woe is me, we forget the
salt. We slave at our desks, in our workshops, to make a home for
those we love; we give up our pleasures, we give up our rest.
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