“Oh, I love to read dime novelth,” says the lispin’ one: “I love to be thad and weep; it theemeth tho thweet, tho thingularly thweet.”
Says I, “Instead of sheddin’ your tears over imaginary sorrows, there is a tragedy bein’ lived before your eyes, day after day, that you ort to weep over. A father killin’ himself for his children, bearin’ burdens enough to break down a leather man, and they a-leadin’ round whiffet pups by a string.”
“Whiffet pup!” says Delila Ann, almost angrily; “they are poodles.”
“Well,” says I, calmly; “whiffet poodle pups, it makes no particular difference to me, if it suits you any better.”
Says she, “I paid seven dollars fer ’em, and they pay their way in comfortin’ the girls when they feel sad. Of course, my girls have their dark hours and get low-spirited, when they bore their pa for things he won’t buy for ’em. When they all want a gold butterfly to wear in their hair, are fairly sufferin’ for ’em and then pa won’t get ’em, in such dark hours, they find the dear dogs 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, very coldly.
“Because they won’t never marry if they work,” says Delila Ann.
Says I, “It haint no such thing. Any man worth marryin’ would think as much again of a girl who had independence and common sense enough to earn her living, when her father was a poor man. Good land! how simple it is to try to deceive folks! Gauze veils, and bobinet lace, and cotton velvet cloaks haint a-goin’ to cover up the feet of poverty, if we be poor. Not a mite of disgrace in it. Poverty is the dark mine, where diamonds are found lots of times; by their glittering so bright against 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 white drops of light that will shine forever. Honest hard-working 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 tryin’ to hide itself behind the aperiences; poverty concealin’ itself under a sham gentility, pretentious, deceitful poverty, trying to cover an empty stomach with a tinsel breastpin, is a sight sad enough to make angels weep and sinners too. Let your girls learn some honest trade, Delila Ann.”
“Oh, my! I wouldn’t let ’em lose their chance of bein’ married for nothin’ in the world.”
“Good land!” says I, “is marryin’ the only theme that anybody can lay holt of?” Says I, “it seems to me it would be the best way to lay holt of duty now, and then, if a bo come, lay holt on him. If they ketch a bo with such a hook as they are a-fishing with now, what kind of a bo will it be? Nobody but a fool would lay holt of a hook baited with dime novels 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 toward themselves, when they are 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!’