silence of Space. A thin crust over a molten centre
whirling at a thousand miles an hour. A collision,
a jar, just enough to move it out of its orbit would
wreck it—its surface covered with ignorant
human chickens, knowing neither where they came from
nor where they are going to, scratching, fighting,
crowing, clucking, smoothing their feathers in vanity,
and cocking their telescopes at the firmament in hungry
curiosity! It is a sight that must make the Angels
weep.
OBSERVATIONS OF A RETIRED VETERAN XIII
Ah, here you are again! What; you don’t
remember me? Why, I remember you. It was
last Christmas, don’t you know, in this store?
You were buying a mustache-cup—there now,
don’t blush; perhaps it was slippers, or a smoking-cap.
Anyhow, it was for him. Ah; so you do remember
me. But why do you call him Mr.
Smith, now?
It was Jack, then. You never regarded him as
anything but a friend? Of course not; but, my
dear, when young people begin to look upon each other
as friends—you see I accent it right—it
is very apt to be the overture to a very difficult
opera which is as likely to end with the curtain descending
to the strains of slow music as any other way.
I like to see the young interchanging gifts at holiday
times, but I might be allowed to suggest, as the result
of the observation of an old man, be careful of what
you write in sending them. You have seen pictures
of Cupid—so healthful, so chubby and rosy,
and such promise of long life. It is a mistake;
I know of no greater invalid—none of the
gods whose health is so frail. I have known a
cold word to give him a fatal chill. I have seen
him fly, never to return, from a mere scent—a
cigarette breath. I have known him taken incurably
ill at the bad fit of a Jersey or the set of an overcoat.
And I have seen him lie down and die without a word
and nobody ever knew the reason why; even if he knew
it himself, which I very much doubt. So, you
see, it will be a very wise precaution in dealing
with such an uncertain god to be prepared for everything.
And one preparation is to be careful of what you put
on paper. Many a young girl and many a young
man, in an effort to write their little notes, sending
or receiving holiday presents, often overstep the mark
in trying to strike the proper elevated key. Don’t
abound in literary gush, no matter what are your sentiments
in giving or receiving; if you write at all, write
a plain, brief, dignified note which you can read
five years after with perfect satisfaction. Notes
are often misunderstood, sometimes we don’t
exactly understand ourselves when we write them, and
so it is always safer to be on the conservative side.
It will often save a good deal of vain regret and many
wishes to goodness that you had taken this advice.
