“I dare say that there are lots of wimmen besides her that git new bunnets when they haint a sufferin’ for ’em, and buy new dresses when their old ones haint hardly come to mendin’, and mebby some of ’em have two or three sets of jewelry at one time; and these dresses, and bunnets, and jewelry, folks can lay holt of, and shake out before the eyes of the public, and the public can look at ’em, and shed tears onto ’em, and bewail over ’em about wimmen’s extravagance; but men’s extravagance haint so easy to git holt of as store clothes be. You can’t weep over cigar smoke when it is evaporated, and after they are over with, you can’t git holt of costly wines, and club dinners, and yot races, and rides after fast horses, and bets, and gamblin’ debts, and worse. As I said, their extravagance is harder to git holt of, but it is worse than hers; for if she and he gits hungry, she can sell her jewelry and fine clothes to buy bread for ’em, but who—no matter how big a speculator he is—who can sell costly lunches years afterwards, and wines after they are drunk up, and gamin’ and horse debts after they are paid up, and old pleasure rides after fast horses, and etcetery. A man couldn’t sell ’em at any lay at all, if he starved to death; so man’s extravagance is more extravagant than woman’s.”
FRUGAL MEN.
HOW I MARRIED THE DEACON’S DAUGHTER
The Deacon didn’t mind my words no more’n the wind a whistlin’ round the corner of the barn; but he give a look onto the little white waist that was a layin’ on the table, as angry and rebukin’ a look as I ever see, and says he: “To think an immortal soul will peril its hopes of heaven on such wicked vanity.”
“Wicked!” says I, holdin’ up the little waist admirin’ly on my thumb and forefinger. “It haint wicked, it is as white as chalk clean through;” says I, “who told us to consider the lilies, and they are puckered up, and ruffled off as much again as this is, and all ornamented off with little gold ornaments; if there was any wickedness in ’em would He have sot us to considerin’ of ’em? No! Zebulin Coffin, no!” And then I went on in pretty reasonable tones: “No woman can have stronger principles than I have on the subject of ruffles and knife pleatin’s, when pursued after as a stiddy business and a trade. But I say it is jest as sensible to expect young folks in the spring of life, to want to kinder trim themselves out and look pretty, as it is to expect everything else to kinder blow out in the spring of the year; apple trees, and pozy beds and so 4th.” Says I, “I am a Promiscous Advisor by trade Uncle Zebulin, and I feel it my duty to say to you promiscously, that you are unreasonable; you don’t have charity enough for folks.”
And then as I calculated to all the time, I give him a very, very blind hint about Tom Pitkins—for I thought mebby I could mollyfy the old Deacon about him—and so says I in a awful roundabout, blind way: “Mebby you haint charity enough for a certain person that is likely as likely can be; mebby you condemn this certain person because he plays dominoes, and has danced a very little in a neighborly way.”
The Deacon acted mad; and he run on about dancin’ almost fearfully, when I asked him considerable calmly: “Did you ever dance when you was young, Uncle Zeb?”
If a look could have cut anybodys head off, my Josiah would have mourned over a guluntined companion that very minute.
“Dance! I dance!” Oh how he went on; and says I, “I s’pose you went to parties and played?”