Sometimes the song is of an old farmhouse on the western plains, where life meant struggle and bitter privation.  Brothers and sisters, in the torn, faded clothes which were all they had; father’s tremulous “God bless you,” when someone went away.  Mother’s never-ending toil, and the day when her roughened hands were crossed upon her breast, at rest for the first time, while the children cried in wonder and fear.

Then the plaintive minor swells for a moment into the full major chord, when Love, the King, in royal purple, took possession of the desolate land.  Corn huskings and the sound of “Money Musk,” scarlet ears and stolen kisses under the harvest moon, youth and laughter, and the eternal, wavering hope for better things.  Long years of toil, with interludes of peace and divine content, little voices, and sometimes a little grave.  Separation and estrangement, trust and misgiving, heartache and defeat.

[Sidenote:  A Magic in the Strings]

The tears may start at Memory’s singing, but as the song goes on there comes peace, for there is a magic in the strings which changes sadness into something sweet.  Memory’s eyes are deep and tender and her heart is full of compassion.  So the old love letters bring happiness after all—­like the smile which sometimes rests upon the faces of the dead.

An Inquiry into Marriage

[Illustration]

An Inquiry into Marriage

[Sidenote:  Like a Grape]

Marriage appears to be somewhat like a grape.  People swallow a great deal of indifferent good for the sake of the lurking bit of sweetness and never know until it is too late whether the venture was wise.

Chaucer compared it to a crowded church.  Those left on the outside are eager to get in, and those caught inside are straining every nerve to get out.  There are many, in this year of grace, who have safely made their escape, but, unfortunately, the happy ones inside say little about it, and do not seem anxious to get out.

Fate takes great pleasure in confusing the inquiring spinster.  Some of the disappointed ones will advise her never to attempt it, and in the voluble justification which follows, she sees clearly that the discord was not entirely caused by the other.  Her friends, who have been married a year or so, regard her with evident pity, and occasionally suggest, delicately enough, to be sure, that she could never have had a proposal.

[Sidenote:  The Consistent Lady]

Among her married friends who are more mature, there is usually one who chooses her for a confidant.  This consistent lady will sob out her unhappiness on the girl’s shoulder, and the next week ask her why she doesn’t get married.  Sometimes she invites the girl to her house to meet some new and attractive man—­with the memory of those bitter tears still in her heart.