When she runs away with another man, though she knows you are doing the best you can, you know it’s because your pay ain’t high, but you make up your mind that it’s best to lie; so when folks ask you the reason why, you say her old mother is going to die. Then, lo! the old woman turns up that night, and your neighbors say: “He’s a liar, all right.” That’s hell.
When some one you wouldn’t let wipe your feet tells to the vultures in the street that to gain your affections they needn’t try, that he’s the petted gink on the sly, and some old gossip who this has heard comes round and tells you every word, your mind and soul are filled with dismay, but because you’re a lady there’s nothing to say. And it’s hell.
When your dress and your hat cost you five, and you sewed on them nights when half alive, but when you wear them the neighbors smile, and say to each other, “just see that style—catch on to the Paris gown and hat; where did she get coin to dress like that? That rig is a mighty costly one—and I wonder her husband don’t catch on.” You smile as you trip through the merry throng, smarting under an awful wrong. And it’s hell!
When you marry some mother’s angel pet, who away from coddling you cannot get, just make up your mind to find a way to bear your burden day by day. And when his misdoings are laid to you, you’ll say this old world is all askew. And it’s hell!
THE LOCO GERM.
HEN it enters your system, don’t try to squirm; just take your medicine, it’s a loco germ. It may not come till you’re old and gray, but every guy takes it on some day. It cuts no ice if her feet are big, and if in your heart you don’t like her rig; if her hands are coarse and a little bit red, and horse-hair rats are in her head. You will see the defects and will says, “By Jove! She’s the one for me.” You’re in love.
She’ll be indifferent, it’s just their way; a little bit selfish, a little bit gay, but she touched your hand and she makes you thrill; then lookout, old chap, you are losing your will. You’ll notice the paint if she uses such, but you’ll never think she has on too much. You’ll see she ain’t real, where she ought to be, and a thousand other defects you’ll see. But, no matter, you only think of the bliss, of getting from her the fatal kiss. You’re in love.
All your traditions are quite upset; what your mother taught you, you’ll quite forget; you’ll get suspicious of those you knew, and you’ll think your pals are in love with her, too. You’ll spend your coin, and you’ll spend it well, on the richest things the Chinks have to sell, and you’ll lay them down on the floor at her feet, and your heart will throb when her glance you meet. You’re in love.
You may have cherished a grand ideal all your former days, but there’s nothing real; the ones you knew in the days gone by will fade from your mind, and you will not sigh. The loved one’s voice may be rather strong, her chin may be weak and her nose too long; her manners, too, are a little crude, and she isn’t herself when she plays the prude. The grammar she uses is not in tone with the district school ma’am away back home. You’re in love.