He iz just about az mutch consequentz whare he livs az a last year’s Farmers’ Allminax.
He is az set in hiz ways az an old goose trieing tew hatch out a glass egg.
COQUETT AND PRUDE.
Menny essays hav bin writ on the natur ov woman, setting forth her aspirashuns, her genius, her impulses, the delikate mechanicks ov her pashuns, the aroma ov her heart, the soft leading strings ov her dispisishun, the cast iron fortitude ov her resolves, and the lurid glare ov her love and her hate.
I hav read menny ov these, only tew be more solid in mi long cultivated opinyun, that woman and her character in the lump, iz like the ranebo in the East, butiful beyond language, full ov promis and impossible tew paint.
In mi philosophy, rude and untutored, i call woman the lesser light, the moon, gentle as an angel, stealing softly along the buzzum ov the skey on an errand ov love, light for the hour ov darkness, pashunt watcher while the world sleeps, queen ov the night, jeweled with stars.
I compare woman to a vine full ov tendrils, which can’t reach perfection without a pole to climb, and then often mounting far above the pole.
Man i call the sun, filling the earth with phrenzy, woman the moon, that chastens the twilight, and steals through the lattice to play on the hearth-stone.
Each one haz their sphear, and the loss ov either would be the blotting out ov the sun, or the moon.
Each one haz their appointment, which should not be changed.