HOME, SWEET HOME
OH, Home! It is a sacred place—or was, in olden days, before the people learned to chase to moving picture plays; to tango dances and such things, to skating on a floor; and now the youthful laughter rings within the Home no more. You will recall, old men and dames, the homes of long ago, and you’ll recall the fireside games the children used to know. The neighbors’ kids would come along with your own kids to play, and merry as a bridal song the evening passed away. An evening spent away from home in olden days was rare; the children hadn’t learned to roam for pleasure everywhere. But now your house is but a shell where children sleep and eat; it serves that purpose very well—their home is on the street. Their home is where the lights are bright, where ragtime music flows; their noon’s the middle of the night, their friends are—Lord, who knows? The windows of your home are dark, and silence broods o’er all; you call it Home—God save the mark! ’Tis but a sty or stall!
POOR WORK
YOU can’t afford to do poor work, so, therefore, always shun it; for no excuse or quip or quirk will square you when you’ve done it. I hired a man to paint my cow from horntips to the udder, and she’s all blotched and spotted now, and people view and shudder. “Who did the job?” they always ask; and when I say, “Jim Yellow,” they cry, “When we have such a task we’ll hire some other fellow.” And so Jim idly stands and swows bad luck has made him nervous, for when the people paint their cows they do not ask his service. And thus one’s reputation flows, a-skiting, here and yonder; and wheresoe’er the workman goes, his bum renown will wander. ’Twill face him like an evil ghost when he his best is doing, and jolt him where it hurts the most, and still keep on pursuing. A good renown will travel, too, from Gotham to Empory, and make you friends in places new, and bring you cash and glory. So always do your best, old hunks; let nothing be neglected, and you will gather in the plunks, and live and die respected.
OLD MAIDS
ALL girls should marry when they can. There’s naught more useful than a man. A husband has some faults, no doubt, and yet he’s good to have about; and she who doesn’t get a mate will wish she had one, soon or late. That girl is off her base, I fear, who plans to have a high career, who sidesteps vows and wedding rings to follow after abstract things. I know so many ancient maids who in professions, arts or trades have tried to cut a manlike swath, and old age finds them in the broth. A loneliness, as of the tomb, enshrouds the spinsters in its gloom; the jim crow honors they have won they’d sell at seven cents a ton. Their sun is sinking in the West, and they, unloved and uncaressed, must envy, as they bleakly roam, the girl with husband, hearth, and home. Get married, then, Jemima dear; don’t fiddle with a cheap career. Select a man who’s true and good, whose head is not composed of wood, a man who’s sound in wind and limb, then round him up and marry him. Oh, rush him to the altar rail, nor heed his protest or his wail. “This is,” you’ll say, when he’s been won, “the best day’s work I’ve ever done.”