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About The Omaha morning bee. (Omaha [Neb.]) 1922-1927 | View Entire Issue (May 13, 1923)
HOW TO AVOID GETTING MARRIED -By STEPHEN LEACOCK.--— — Some years ago, when I was the editor of a correspondence column, I used to receive heart-broken let ters from young men asking for ad vice and sympathy. They found themselves the object of marked at tentions from girls which they scarcely knew how to deal with. They did not wish to give pain or to seen) indifferent to a love which they felt was as ardent as it was disinterested, and yet they felt that they could not bestow their hands where their hearts had not spoken. They wrote to me fully and frank ly, and as one soul might write to another for relief. 1 accepted their confidences as under the pledge of a secrecy, never divulging their dis closures beyond the circulation of my newspapers, or giving any hint of their identity other than printing their names and addresses and their letters in full. But I may perhaps without dishonor reproduce one of these letters, nnd my answer to it, inasmuch as the date Is now- months ago, and the softening hand of Time has woven its roses—how shall I put it?—the mellow haze of reminiscences has—what I mean is that the young man has gone back to work and is all right again. Here then Is a letter from a young man whose name I must not reveal, but whom X will designate as D. F.. and whose address I must not divulge, but will simply indicate as Q street, west. Dear Mr. Beacock: For some time past I have been the recipient of very marked attentions from a young lady. She has been calling at the house almost every evening, and haa taken me out in her motor, and invited me to concerts and the theater. On these latter occasions I have Insisted on her taking my father with me. and have tried as far as possible to prevent her saying anything to me which would be un fit for father to hear. But my posi “Co to your father, put your arms around lib neck, and have a good cry together.” tion has become a very difficult one J do not think it right to accept her presents when I cannot feel that my heart is hers. Yesterday she sent to my house a beautiful bouquet of American Fleauty roses addressed to me, and a magnificent bunch of Timothy Hay for father. I do not know what to say. Would it be right for father to keep all this valuable hay? I have confided full in fa ther and we have discussed the question of presents. He thinks that there are some that we can keep with propriety, and others that a sense of delicacy forbids us to re tain. He himself is going to sort out the presents into the two classes. He thinks that ns far as he can see, the Hay is In class B. Meantime I write to you. I enclose a dollar, because I do not thigk it right to ask you to give all your valuable time and your best thought without giving you liack what it Is worth. On receipt of this 1 wrote back at once a private and confidential let ter which 1 printed in the following following edition of the paper. My Dear. Dear Boy: Your letter has touched me. As soon as I opened it and saw the green and blue tint of the dollar bill which you had so daintily and prettily folded within the pages of your sweet letter. I knew that the note was from some one that I could learn to love, if our correspondence were to continue tut it had begun. I took the dollar from your letter and kissed and fondled it a dozen times. Dear unknown boy! I shall al ways keep that dollar! No matter how much I may need it, or how many necessaries, yes, absolute ne cessities. of life 1 may be wanting. I shall always keep that dollar. Do you understand, dear? I shall keep it. As far as the use of it goes, it will be just as if you had not sent it. Kven If you were to send me an other dollar, I should still keep the first one, so that no mater how many you sent, the recollection of our first friendship would not be contaminated with mercenary con siderations. When I say dollar, darling, of course an express order, or a postal note, or even stamps would he all the same, But In that case do not address me in care of this office, as I should not like to think of your pretty little letters ly ing around where others might han dle them. But now I must stop chatting about myself, for 1 know that you cannot be Interested In a simple old fogey such as I am. Let me talk to you about your letter and about the difficult question It raises for all marriagnble young men. In the first place, let me tell you how glad I am that you confled In your father. Whatever happens, go at once to your father, put your arms about his neck and have a good cry together. And you are right, too, about presents. It needs a wiser head than my poor pel* plexed boy to deal with them. Taka them to your father to be sorted, or If you feel that you must not over tax his love, address them to me in your own pretty hand. And now, let us talk, dear, as ona heart to another. Remember ul ways that if a girl is to have your heart she must be worthy of you. When you look at your own bright innocent face In the mirror, resolve that you will give your hand to no girl who Is not just as innocent as you are and no brighter than your self. So thut you must first find out how innocent she is. Ask her quietly and frankly — remember, dear, that the days of false modesty are passing away—whether she has ever been in jail. If she has not (and if you have not*, then you know that you are dealing with a dear confiding girl who will maka you a life mate. Then you must know, too, that her mind is worthy of your own. Ho many men today are led astray by the merely super ficial graces and attractions of girls who in reality possess no mental equipment at all. Many a man is bitterly disillu sioned after marriage when he re alizes that his wife cannot solve a a quadratic equation, and that ha Is compelled to spend all liis days with a woman who does not know that x squared plus 2xy plus y squared is the same thing, or, I think nearly the same thing, as K plus y squared. Nor should the simple domestic virtues he neglected. If a girl de sires to woo you, before allowing her to press her suit, ask her if she knows how to press yours. If she can, let her woo; if not, tell her to whoa. But I see I have writ ten quite as much as I need for this column. Won't you write again, Just as before, dear boy? STEPHEN LEACOCK. (Copyright, 1923.) Some Talk of Alexander _«•»■“»■«» Kre- Tw,) By A. S. M. Hutchinson stoop to kiss those lkls of hers'. Wonderful! Wonderful! That was what he wanted—words to express these astounding things, these ex quisite and thrice entrancing things. The second occasion touched u prefounder depth and led directly to the third. The second occasion was before the second hand liookseller « from whose tray of cheap moderns and periodicals he distilled his love potions. Within the window were displayed volumes of the poets: opened, their leaves bound back with bands. His eye idly took a verse: I held it truth with him who sing* To one clear harp In divers tones Meaningless: But his eye was held, and completed the stanza: That men may rise on stepping stones Of their dead selves to higher things. Ah! He caught at his breath with the Bound as if it were of a Bob. On stepping stones—may rise on stepping stones—of their dead selves —to higher things. Might they? Could they? Might he? Could he? He turned from the book shop, new matter from that which had taken him there In his inind, and the wind toppled the uprnost of a pile of battered second hand rug-bag stuff. He stooped to replace it and his thumb was upon the concluding words of Hie volume. •—"So he passed over and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side." lie looked at the title, “Pilgrim's Progress " Tie read again, two lines higher. "—to the river side, into which as he went he said. ‘Death, where Is thy sting?’ And as he went down deeper he said. 'Grave, where is thy victory?' So ho passed over and all the trumpet# sounded for him on the other side.” Courage! Courage! Oh, matchless sublimity of courage here! He bought the book—tuppence!— and hurried with it to his lodging. He was back in Tidborough. Ho was planning her escape. He had for some time known a little empty cottage on the out skirts of Penny Green, a few mile# from Tidborough. Ho sold a por tion of the investments left him by hlu father and bought the cottage; and now the rapturous delights of searching shops to furnish and adorn 11—for her! Before he left her, on the termi nation of his holiday, he told her of the cottage and of the escape It offered her. He pretended the cot tage was already his; "on his hands" as he put It, and would be all the better for having a tenant. How was she to live? That was simple. There was an Immense de mand for furnished rooms In and around Penny Clreen; It had always boon an idea of his to put into this cottage someone who could let off the two spare rooms there would ^fce; it was really a piece of luck for hl/n to find her for the purpose. That was how he put it. That the demand for rooms in Penny Green was much greater than the supply was true; he knew it well in the course of his duties at the estate office. In his daydreams he dreamt to himself that one day, one day.... One day—He was arranging her escape. He was planning also the winning of her love. She never could love him as he was. The task was to remake himself—on step ping stones—of his dead self—And that was to become a man. Not to shrink. Not to tremble. Courage. Courage. The battered "Pilgrim's Progress" was more battered for his ceaseless use of it. and was now liis daily sustenance. As he had torn love from his periodicals, so now voraciously he sought to tear courage from the leaves of Pun yan's story. He read the book again and again and again; and every snatch of reading he termi nated with the enormous elixir of that concluding line: “So he passed over and all the trumpets sounded for him on the other side.” That tingled him. He used to 1m aglne himself doing some mighty and splendid thing and ail the trum pets sounding for hirn ns he went proudly toward her, proudly, lov ingly awaiting him. Tliat was the thing! That was it! One day— One day— All was ready! He was walking to the cottage for a last indulgence in the sight of all the beauty and tbe comforts be had prepared for her. Tomorrow was the day fixed. She was to tuke tho morning ex press train to London. That would throw her husband off the scent. From London a train would get her to Tidborough at 3 o’clock. He would not meet her at the station. He was to have the ecstasy ("the pleas ure,” as he had temperately ex pressed It in writing to her, of wel coming her In the cottage. The quaint old cottage, beautiful In itself, hud lent its interior to la-auty In Its decoration. Love gave him taste. There was not nn article he had purchased, nor one he had placed In position, but her face had been Imagined against it, directing his perceptions as the north star directs the wanderer. A neighboring cottager, Mrs. Jennings, bad been brought In dally to assist tho ar ranging. Ktepplng In with him on his arrival on this last evening she gave tho admiration that was en chantment to him to hear. "Well, if it isn’t Just a picture,” declared Mrs. Jennings, gazing round the parlor. "A picture, t/id that's the truth, sir.'’ How pleased he was! He patted the head of tiny Laura, Mrs. Jen ning's little girl, and with his oth er hand felt In his pockets for Laura's present that was to cele brate this splendid conclusion. "Yes, it certainly does look nice, Mrs, Jennings And, Mrs. Jennings, you're going to let Eutira be over here tomorrow to tie playing here when the lady arrives.” Mrs Jennings certainly was. How tiny Eaura jumped and clap ped her hands for joy. She had been promised anything she liked from the toyshops at Tidborough and a musical box. like one of her friends had. had been what Hector was asked to buy. Mrs. .Jennings ran off to her cot tage. He seated himself down In the chair specialty chosen for Enid's comfort. Tiny Laura at his feet, fumbled the musical box out of its wrappings. "Now, you’re right, Eaura. Turn the handle. Eel's hear the pretty tunes.” He smiled to see tiny Lau ra's tongue come out and move from side to side under the strain of her melody making. The tink ling tune was vaguely familiar. .Some popular national air. He won dered if Enid could play the piano; and how much one would cost? Imagine sitting here of an evening while she played. The musical box (licked. The music stopped. "Go on. I>aura. Wind on. Anoth er one coming.” Yen, a piano. How beautiful an® would look seated at the keys. How she would love this room. Tomor row' at this hour she would be here. How wonderful, indeed, that ho had done all this. He was twice, he was a dozen times, the man he used to be. Stepping stones—of those dead selves. He was climb ing up. Ho was certain of It! "Go on. Laura. Wind away. Still another Here, let me do this one.” He stooped forward and took the bo*. Yes, climbing up— Would never look back now— He wound the handle. Home talk of Alexander and some of Hercules. Of Hector and— "Take It. Laura. Tuke It away. You’d better go homo now. Don’t you hear? No; don’t play It. You're not to wind it. Time to go now. Don't you hear?” Iziura was frightened The day was Thursday: early closing day nt Tldborough and chosen for that reason. He left the office nt 1 o'clock. He went first to his lodgings to spruce himself up In It before going on to the cottage to await her. The night had been bad. That tune, that Infernal, hate ful tune, coming like that upset him. Hut with the morning his oppres sion had gone. After nil. what test of his courage could there possibly Im-? When she was safely arrived here she would ho ns Hecure here and lie would bo as secure here ns if they were on another continent. Hu let himself into his lodgings and passed up the stairs to his room. Everything was wonderful and glorious. lie was miles re moved from the timid thing ho had le-on. He could wish there might be some test of his manhood that Rnid could see. If the horse that would be drawing her cab were to run away and he rush out from the cottage and slop it! Something like that! But it was not anything like that. It was something quite different. As he opened the door of his room and stepped within, the huge and malevolent form of her hus band rose to greet him. "Shut that door," said Mr. Wilks. Ho turned and shut it. One of those enormous fists of Mr. Wilks presented a revolver straight in his face. The other fist shot out and into his chest like a battering ram. staggering him back ward. But the fist clutched him. gathering up the better part of his waistcoat and of his shirt in its enormous paw, and shook him fero ciously so that Ids teeth knocked together. "Where's my wife?" His tongue, In sheer terror, clove to the roof uf his mouth. He could not speak. “Where ia she? Out with It. “Not here.” Again that frightful shaking, jerking hia head to anil fro. "No* here! I can »ee that with me own eyes, can't I? Is she In this house?” “No.” “Coming here?” "No.” He was shaken to and fro for a fill half minute. “Listen to me. I know you've got her away." 11a called her by a gross epithet. The —left half your letters behind. I know you’ve got her.” Mr. Wilks returned the revolver to his pocket and put up the fist that had held it, clenched, terrific. “Am I going to start this on your face or are you going to tell me? Quick with it!" "I’ll tell you." “Quick with it.” Ho told. Mr. Wilks flung him away with a violent motion. He spun along the wall, crashed Into the washing stand and fell over It to the floor. The ewer capslred and shattered. The water drenched him. “(Jet up.’’ commanded Mr. Wilks. You louse. Hun away with a man's wife! Get up and show the way and me lady’ll see what I'm going to do with you. and you'll seo what I’m going to do with mo lady. tTp with you!" They were In the cottage, walling for her. Mr. Wilks lolled In the armchair, a cigar in his mouth, hia legs on the table. Hector Hywash sat opposite him. the table between them, his head bowed in his bands. In the little room udjolnlng was tiny Laura. Hector had smuggled her out of view nnd shut the door upon her. While they waited was the steady ticking of tho clock upon the wall —hringlvg her closer — the heavy breathing of Mr. Wilks, Inclined to dose, the occasional sharp Intake of Hector’s breath, In vision watch ing her approach.to hts bclruyal of her, sometimes through the door the faint tinkle of the musical box. And suddenly there penetrated the agony of his mind this most frightful thought, "There’s still time to save her"’ And immediately there came to him trial within his own bosom of the kind that is said to await all men in the last senate of eternity. Mr. Bywash stood in such a court, a prisoner at the bar of truth, and looked into the faced of the verities sitting as arbiters upon his case, and wrung his hands, and protested. The defendant: "My lords, my lords, you must surely see, it was like this—If only I had had a min ute's preparation! If only, as I went up those stairs, I had known, he was waiting in my room! If only I had even heard him when I was Just the other side of the door. If only I had had the smallest, faint est warning, 1 would have had timo to think, I wouldn't have done it. Indeed and indeed, my lords, I would not have done it.” The Arbiters: Attend: you have got time now. You have betrayed her, but she hasn't yet come to your betrayal. Hhe's on the road. But there's—look at the clock—!0 min utes before she can get here. Twen ty minutes to save her." The defendant with slinking limbs crept out of the court. Mr. Bywash very cautiously raised his bowed head to the level of the table. Tho huge soles of Mr. Wilks' boots confronted him. lie raised his glance above them. Mr. Wilks' eyes were half closed, no glow was to he seen upon the cigar that depended from his mouth. Mr. Bywash's mind fixed on tho revolver that had been pointed at him. .He knew which pocket it was in. If he could get that! tho light table was so small that .ts farther end was well beneath Mr. Wilks' thighs, and Mr. Wilks' chair was slightly tilted on Its back legs. If ho gave one great heave front beneath the table—and then a dash and a grab for the revolver while the man was sprawling—if he could —If he dared— Ten minutes paused. He went hack Into the court. The Defendant: "My lords, my lords, It's like this. You see. If I did attack him. what could I possi bly do? I'm ready to try. I swear 1 ain. But what earthly good could I do? In two minutes I would ha killed. My lords, my lords, what earthly good? In two minutes I should be killed.” The Arbiters: "Attend If you uro killed, he will have murdered you. He will flee for his life. Its will never dare to come near her ugaln. Mho will be free of hint for ever. You have flvo minutes. liy wnsh." The court withdrew and left Me. Bywash. lie thought “ ‘On stepping-stones —of their dead selves'—One quick moment and It will all bo over." He put his hands beneath tho (Contlnuril on P«f« Sit.)