XXIII.

A bewitched violin.

I went to the Auditorium the other night to hear somebody play on the violin.  But that was not a violin which the slender, dark eyed performer used, and the music that so charmed me was not drawn from strings and flashed forth by any ordinary bow.  The heavenly notes to which I listened were like those that young leaves give forth when May winds find them, or that ripples make, drawn softly over pebbly beaches.  And when they died away and floated like a whisper through the hushed house, it was no longer music; it was a great golden-jacketed bee settling sleepily into the heart of a rose; it was the chime of a vesper-bell broken in mellow cadences between vine-clad hills; it was a something that had no form nor shape, nor semblance to any earthly thing, yet floated midway between the earth and sky, light as the frailest flower of snow the north wind ever cradled, substanceless as smoke or wind-followed mist.

XXIV.

A hat pin problem.

I overheard the following conversation the other day in a popular refectory: 

“Do your children mind you?”

“I guess not; they never pay any more attention to me than if I was a dummy.  It takes their father to bring them to terms every time!”

“I am so glad to hear it.  I like to know that somebody else besides me has a hard time with their children.  I declare the only way I can get baby to mind already is to jab him with a hat-pin!”

I waited to hear no more.  With sad precipitation I gathered up my check and fled.  Had I waited another minute I should have said to that mother:  “Madam, I will give you a problem to solve.  If, at the age of three, a child needs the impetus of one hat-pin to make him obey, how many meat-axes will it require to keep him in order at the age of ten?  And if you are such a poor miserable failure as a mother and a woman now, just at the commencement of an immortal destiny, what have the eternities in store for you?”

Why, oh, why are children sent to people who have no more idea about bringing them up than a trout has about training hop-vines?  It is a question that has given and does give me much uneasiness.

XXV.

Politeness vs.  Sincerity.

You imagine it is not polite to be plain spoken!  My dear, there are times when to be merely “polite” is to be a toady!  There are times when politeness is a pillow of hen feathers, wherewith to smother honor and strangle truth.  If all you care for is to be popular, to go through life like a molasses-drop in a child’s mouth, why, then, choose your way and live up to it, but don’t expect to rank higher than molasses, and cheap molasses at that.  For my part I would rather be outspoken in the cause of