"You never seem to know your own mind."
She was feeling annoyed with men generally. I do not blame her, I
feel annoyed with them myself sometimes. There is one man in
particular I am always feeling intensely irritated against. He says
one thing, and acts another. He will talk like a saint and behave
like a fool, knows what is right and does what is wrong. But we
will not speak further of him. He will be all he should be one day,
and then we will pack him into a nice, comfortably-lined box, and
screw the lid down tight upon him, and put him away in a quiet
little spot near a church I know of, lest he should get up and
misbehave himself again.
The other man, who is a wise man as men go, looked at his fair
critic with a smile.
"My dear madam," he replied, "you are blaming the wrong person. I
confess I do not know my mind, and what little I do know of it I do
not like. I did not make it, I did not select it. I am more
dissatisfied with it than you can possibly be. It is a greater
mystery to me than it is to you, and I have to live with it. You
should pity not blame me."
There are moods in which I fall to envying those old hermits who
frankly, and with courageous cowardice, shirked the problem of life.
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