Says Delila Ann, “I paid seven dollars a piece for ’em, and they have paid their way in comfortin’ the girls when they feel bad; of course my girls have their dark hours and git low-spirited when they teaze their pa for things that he wont buy for ’em; when they want a gold butterfly to wear in their hair, are sufferin’ for it or for other necessaries, and their pa wont git ’em for ’em; in such dark hours the companionship of these dear dogs are such a comfort to ’em.”
“Why don’t they go to work and earn their own butterflies if they have got to have ’em?” says I.
“Because they wont never marry if they demean themselves and work.”
Says I, “It haint no such thing! A man whose love is worth havin’ would think the more of ’em;” and I went on eloquently—“do you s’pose Delila, that the love of a true man,—a love that crowns a woman more royally than a queen, a love that satisfies her head and her heart and that she can trust herself to through life and death; a love that inspires her to think all goodness and purity are possible to her for its sake,—that makes her, through very happiness, more humble and tender and yet fearless, liftin’ her above all low aims and worryments; do you s’pose this love that makes a woman as rich as a Jew if she owns nothin’ on earth beside, can be inspired and awakened by a contemplation of sham gentility and whiffet pups? Can bobinet lace spangled with gilt butterflies weave a net to catch this priceless treasure? Never! Delila Ann Spicer, never! that is,—a love that is worth havin’; some men’s love haint worth nothin’; I wouldn’t give a cent a bushel for it by the car-load.”
But, as I said, “Delila Ann and the hull eight on you promiscous, a earnest, true, noble man would think as much again of a girl who had independence and common sense enough to earn her own livin’ when her father was a poor man. Good land! how simple it is to try to deceive folks; gauze veils, and cotton-velvet cloaks haint a goin’ to cover up the fact of poverty; if we be poor there’s not a mite of disgrace in it. Poverty is the dark mine where diamonds are found lots of times by their glitterin’ so ag’inst the blackness. The darkness of poverty can’t put out the light of a pure diamond; it will shine anywhere, as bright in the dark dirt as on a queen’s finger, for its light comes from within; and rare pearls are formed frequent by the grindin’ touch of poverty, tears of pain and privation and patience crystalized into great drops of light that will shine forever. Honest hard workin’ poverty is respectable as anything can be respectable and should be honored, if for no other reason, for the sake of Him who eighteen hundred years ago made it illustrious forever. But poverty hidin’ itself behind the appariently; poverty hidin’ itself under a sham gentility; pretentious, deceitful poverty—tryin’ to cover a empty stomach with a tinsel breast-pin—is a sight, and enough to make angels weep, and sinners sick. Let your girls learn some honest trade Delila Ann, let ’em be self-respectin’, industrious—”
“Oh my! I wouldn’t have ’em miss of bein’ married for nothin’ in the world.”
“Good land!” says I. “Is marryin’ the only theme that anybody can lay holt of? It seems to me that the best way would be to lay holt of duty now, and then if a bo comes lay holt of him. But if they catch a bo with such a hook as they are a fishin’ with now, what kind of a bo will it be? Nobody but a fool would lay holt of a hook baited with dime novels, lazyness, deceitfulness, and pups. Learn your girls to be industrious and to respect themselves. They can’t now, Delila Ann, I know they can’t. No woman can feel honorable and reverential towards themselves, when they are a foldin’ their useless hands over their empty souls, waitin’ for some man—no matter who—to marry ’em and support ’em. When in the agony of suspense and fear they have narrowed down to this one theme all their hopes and prayers: “Good Lord, anybody!” But when a woman lays holt of life in a noble earnest way, when she is dutiful, cheerful, and industrious, God-fearin’ and self-respectin’, though the world sinks, there is a rock under her feet that wont let her down fur enough to hurt her any.”
“Oh dear;” says Delila Ann again, “I should think she would want to get married—want to awfully.” Truly everybody has their theme, and marryin’ is hern. But I kep’ cool and says I in calm axents, but sort o’ noble and considerable eloquent:
“If love comes to board with her, so much the better; she will be ready to receive him royally, and keep him when she gets him—some folks don’t know how to use love worth a cent, can’t keep him any length of time. Such a woman wont git crazy as a loon, and wild-eyed, and accept the wrong man—so dead with fear that the right one wont be forth comin’. She wont barter her truth and self respect for a home and housen stuff, and the sham dignity of a false marriage. No mom, or moms; though a regiment of men are at her feet a askin’ her in pleadin’ axents if their bride she will be, her ears will be deaf as a stun to the hull caboodle of ’em, unless the true voice speaks to her; and she wont listen with the ear of flesh, she wont hear it unless her soul can listen. Mebby that voice, that true voice is soundin’ to her heart through the centuries; mebby, like as not, she was born a century too soon, or a hundred years too late—what of it? That don’t scare her a mite, she will keep right on a livin’ jest as calm and collected and happy and contented as anything, till the eternal meetin’ of true souls crowns him and her with the greatness of that love. No, Delila Ann Spicer, such a woman as that, no matter whether she be single or double, I am not afraid of her future.”
“What! not get married! Oh dear me suz,” screamed Delila Ann, for truly the thought seemed to scare her nearly to death. “Oh how awful, how lonely, lonely, they must be.”