That was twenty years ago. We have five children. Morton, Jr., is in college. So is Dorothea second. Dodo means to put them all through, she says. My salary has increased, but not so fast as prices, and neither of them so fast as my family. None of those babies cost a thousand dollars the first year though, nor five hundred thereafter; Dodo's thousand held out for the lot. We moved to a home in the suburbs, of course; that was only fair to the children. I live within my income always—we have but one servant still, and the children are all taught housework in the good old way. None of my friends has as devoted, as vigorous and—and—as successful a wife as I have. She is the incarnate spirit of all the Housewives and House-mothers of history and fiction. The only thing I miss in her—if I must own to missing anything—is companionship and sympathy outside of household affairs. My newspaper work—which she always calls "my business"—has remained a business. The literary aspirations I once had were long since laid aside as impracticable. And the only thing I miss in life beyond my home is, well—as a matter of fact, I don't have any life beyond my home—except, of course, my business.
My friends are mostly co-commuters now. I couldn't keep up with the set I used to know. As my wife said, she could 't dress for society, and, visibly, she couldn't. We have few books, there isn't any margin for luxuries, she says; and of course we can't go to the plays and concerts in town. But these are unessentials—of course—as she says.
I am very proud of my home, my family, and my Amazing Dodo.
WHY TEXTS?
I once listened to a sermon in the Temple Church in London; a sermon delivered with great dignity by an Eminent Divine, a Canon, as I remember.
Here was this worthy man, in that historic place, in the heart of huge London, in the fierce whirring center of so many present social problems, so many aching, hoping human hearts. He had a chance to speak to them; with the purpose, presumably, of giving light and cheer and strength to live better.
There he stood, a conspicuous and powerful figure; and there sat his audience, waiting. To say the truth, they did not look particularly hopeful; having doubtless "sat under" him before.
He took his text from the Nineteenth Chapter of "Acts"—something about "the town clark" of Ephesus; and how he appeased the people. There was some excitement, it appeared, among the citizens, and they raised a noise comparable to the convention which nominated Bryan; "and all with one voice about the space of two hours cried out, Great is Diana of the Ephesians."
Well. She certainly was—is yet, for that matter, though her influence is not confined to Ephesus.
In the face of this tumult, the "town clark," who seems to have been a peaceable person, with a strong sense of justice and propriety, quieted the people with fair words, explaining to them that their vociferous statement as to the dimensions or efficacy of their goddess were quite indisputable; and "matters of common knowledge," and that if they had any complaint against these missionaries they should go to law about it.