The average man thinks he is a connoisseur of feminine attractiveness.

He thinks he has tact, too, but there never was a man who was blessed with much of this valuable commodity. Still, as that is a favourite delusion with so large a majority of the human race, the conceit of the ordinary masculine individual ought not to be censured too strongly.

The real man is quite an expert at flattery. Every girl he meets, if she is at all attractive, is considered the most charming lady that he ever knew. He is sure she isn't prudish enough to refuse him a kiss, and if she is, she wins not only his admiration, but that which is vastly better--his respect.

If she hates to be considered a prude and gives him the kiss, he is very sweet and appreciative at the time, but later on he confides to his chum that she is a silly sort of a girl, without a great deal of self-respect!

There are two things that the average man likes to be told. One is that his taste in dress is exceptional; the other that he is a deep student of human nature and knows the world thoroughly. This remark will make him your lifelong friend.

Again, the real man will put on more agony when he is in love than is needed for a first-cla.s.s tragedy. But there's no denying that most women like that sort of thing, you, dear dainty feminine reader, being almost the only exception to this rule.

But, resuming the special line of thought, man firmly believes that woman cannot sharpen a pencil, select a necktie, throw a stone, drive a nail, or kill a mouse, and it is very certain that she cannot cook a beef-steak in the finished style of which his lordship is capable.

Yes, man has his faults as well as woman. There is a vast room for improvement on both sides, but as long as this old earth of ours turns through shadow and sunlight, through sorrow and happiness, men and women will forgive and try to forget, and will cling to, and love each other.

The Book of Love

I dreamt I saw an angel in the night, And she held forth Love's book, limned o'er with gold, That I might read of days of chivalry And how men's hearts were wont to thrill of old.

Half wondering, I turned the musty leaves, For Love's book counts out centuries as years, And here and there a page shone out undimmed, And here and there a page was blurred with tears.

I read of Grief, Doubt, Silence unexplained-- Of many-featured Wrong, Distrust, and Blame, Renunciation--bitterest of all-- And yet I wandered not beyond Love's name.

At last I cried to her who held the book, So fair and calm she stood, I see her yet; "Why write these things within this book of Love?

Why may we not pa.s.s onward and forget?"

Her voice was tender when she answered me: "Half child, half woman, earthy as thou art, How should'st thou dream that Love is never Love Unless these things beat vainly on the heart?"

The Ideal Man

He isn't nearly so scarce as one might think, but happy is the woman who finds him, for he is often a bit out of the beaten paths, sometimes in the very suburbs of our modern civilisation. He is, however, coming to the front rather slowly, to be sure, but nevertheless he is coming.

He wouldn't do for the hero of a dime novel--he isn't melancholy in his mien, nor Byronic in his morals. It is a frank, honest, manly face that looks into the other end of our observation telescope when we sweep the horizon to find something higher and better than the rank and file of humanity.

He is a gentleman, invariably courteous and refined. He is careful in his attire, but not foppish. He is chivalrous in his att.i.tude toward woman, and as politely kind to the wrinkled old woman who scrubs his office floor as to the aristocratic belle who bows to him from her carriage.

He is scrupulously honest in all his dealings with his fellow men, and meanness of any sort is utterly beneath him. He has a happy way of seeing the humorous side of life, and he is an exceedingly pleasant companion.

When the love light shines in his eyes, kindled at the only fire where it may be lighted, he has nothing in his past of which he need be ashamed. He stands beside her and pleads earnestly and manfully for the treasure he seeks. Slowly he turns the pages of his life before her, for there is not one which can call a blush to his cheek, or to hers.

Truth, purity, honesty, chivalry, the highest manliness--all these are written therein, and she gladly accepts the clean heart which is offered for her keeping.

Her life is now another open book. To him her nature seems like a harp of a thousand strings, and every note, though it may not be strong and high, is truth itself, and most refined in tone.

So they join hands, these two: the sweetheart becomes the wife; the lover is the husband.

He is still chivalrous to every woman, but to his wife he pays the gentler deference which was the sweetheart's due. He loves her, and is not ashamed to show it. He brings her flowers and books, just as he used to do when he was teaching her to love him. He is broad-minded, and far-seeing--he believes in "a white life for two." He knows his wife has the same right to demand purity in thought, word, and deed from him, as he has to ask absolute stainlessness from her. That is why he has kept clean the pages of his life--why he keeps the record unsullied as the years go by.

He is tender in his feelings; if he goes home and finds his wife in tears, he doesn't tell her angrily to "brace up," or say, "this is a pretty welcome for a man!" He doesn't slam the door and whistle as if nothing was the matter. But he takes her in his comforting arms and speaks soothing words. If his comrades speak lightly of his devotion, he simply thinks out other blessings for the little woman who presides at his fireside.

His wife is inexpressibly dear to him, and every day he shows this, and takes pains, also, to tell her so. He admires her pretty gowns, and is glad to speak appreciatively of the becoming things she wears.

He knows instinctively that it is the thoughtfulness and the little tenderness which make a woman's happiness, and he tries to make her realise that his love for her grew brighter, instead of fading, when the sweetheart blossomed into the wife. For every woman, old, wrinkled, and grey, or young and charming, likes to be loved.

The ideal man will do his utmost to make his wife realise that his devotion intensifies as the years go by.

What greater thing is there for two human souls than to feel that they are joined for life--to strengthen each other in all labour, to rest upon each other in all sorrow, to minister to each other in all pain, to be one with each other in silent unspeakable memories at the moment of the last parting?

G.o.d bless the ideal man and hasten his coming in greater numbers.

Good-Night, Sweetheart

Good-night, Sweetheart; the winged hours have flown; I have forgotten all the world but thee.

Across the moon-lit deep, where stars have shone, The surge sounds softly from the sleeping sea.

Thy heart at last hath opened to Love's key; Remembered Aprils, glorious blooms have sown, And now there comes the questing honey bee.

Good-night, Sweetheart; the winged hours have flown.

My singing soul makes music in thine own, Thy hand upon my harp makes melody; So close the theme and harmony have grown I have forsaken all the world for thee.

Before thy whiteness do I bend the knee; Thou art a queen upon a stainless throne, Like Dian making royal jubilee, Across the vaulted dark where stars are blown.

Within my heart thy face shines out alone, Ah, dearest! Say for once thou lovest me!

A whisper, even, like the undertone The surge sings slowly from the rhythmic sea.

Thy downcast eyes make answer to my plea; A crimson mantle o'er thy cheek is thrown a.s.surance more than this, there need not be, For thus, within the silence, love is known.

Good-night, Sweetheart.

The Ideal Woman

The trend of modern thought in art and literature is toward the real, but fortunately the cherishing of the ideal has not vanished.

All of us, though we may profess to be realists, are at heart idealists, for every woman in the innermost sanctuary of her thoughts cherishes an ideal man. And every man, practical and commonplace though he be, has before him in his quiet moments a living picture of grace and beauty, which, consciously or not, is his ideal woman.

Every man instinctively admires a beautiful woman. But when he seeks a wife, he demands other qualities besides that wonderful one which is, as the proverb tells us, "only skin deep."