But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much as I
have always valued her opinion.
A woman takes life too seriously. It is a serious affair to most of
us, the Lord knows. That is why it is well not to take it more
seriously than need be.
Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their little
knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned water. We
are very philosophical.
"Oh, don't cry!" we tell them, "that is babyish. Little boys and
little girls must learn to bear pain. Up you get, fill the pail
again, and try once more."
Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into their
little eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, and trot
back with the pail. We laugh at them, but not ill-naturedly.
"Poor little souls," we say; "how they did hullabaloo. One might
have thought they were half-killed. And it was only a broken crown,
after all. What a fuss children make!" We bear with much stoicism
the fall of little Jack and little Jill.
But when WE--grown-up Jack with moustache turning grey; grown-up
Jill with the first faint "crow's feet" showing--when WE tumble down
the hill, and OUR pail is spilt. Ye Heavens! what a tragedy has
happened.
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