The age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1897-1902, 1899-12-24
THE MURMUR
OF THE WORLD

Not in love neither? Then let's say, you
are sad.
Because you are not merry: and 'twere as
For you to laugh and leap, and say, you are
merry,
Because you are not sad. Now, by two
headed Janus,
Nature hath framed strange fellows in her
time:
Some that will evermore peep through their
eyes,
And laugh, like parrots at bag-piper;
And others of such vinegar aspect,
That they'll not show their teeth in way of
smile,
Though Nestor swears the jest be laughter
A mans loves are mainly comedies:
womans loves are all of them tragedies. A
woman may betray a man who loves her,
but she never ceases to feel grateful to him.
She lsps his name tenderly. and saying it
softly there is always little Tightening of
the heart chords, very much as she would
experience in placing fresh flowers upon
faded ones on a rainbeaten grave. She
laughs the while and acts love with thrill
ing tenderness. At such a moment a wise
lover will go away, to return when darkness
has fallen upon the poor little churchyard
of a heart constantly inconstant. A woman
never forgets any man who has loved her;
never quite forgives any man who has not.
No man who has paid her the tribute of his
affection can ever be wholly bad; and if he
go to the devil with his lost love as an
excuse she will build a shrine to him In her
heart, and turning to it many time she
breaths the pitiful little prayer of Poor
Fellow! he loved me So" A woman loves to
love- and to be loved is to her the divine
essence of all human joy. No lover ever
fell so low that the sounding plummet of
womans gratitude did not reach yet deep
er deep. Her heart for ever sends to him
the admonition Thou didst love me-
The proper study of mankind is woman.
She governs the world. Man may believe
that m, conducts affairs mundane; woman
knows she does. The hand that spanks the
haby is the hand that rocks the world. IIle
hand that with cool touch, deft as angels
skill, soothes the fevered face, and minis
tiers and battles when Pain masters is the
hand eff dear charity. The hand that leads
us TO the hearts confessional and along
the Gaffodil way, where blossoms bloom,
birds sing, and the laughter OF little chill
dren rings upon the air, perfumed with the
sweet odors of a Thousand flowers, is the
hand that points good men the way to the
better life and the worlds redemption!
The hand that pens the vlolet-scented mis-
sive telling of tryst, is the hand That
traces the broad line between the heaven
and tihe hell of a mans life. The hand that
caresses is the hand that redeems,
strengthens, blesses. 1t is the hand that
writes from far or near:
All for you, strong and true,
No time the tie. can sever;
Till the angels dCu'ot and the stars burn
out,
l am yours, sweetheart, forever.
Everybody has a sweetheart everybody
says.
Amongst the greys and browns of an
autumnal wood man and maiden rested
upon the grey bole of Il great grey oak,
fallen in its venerable majesty before the
rude winds boisterous wrath. She toyed
with a cluster of grey moss and brown
leaves, and with his heart. The glow Of
the sun upon its westward way fell through
the bare branches upon her bare head,
GROWING superlative beauty in rare radi-
ance, She Bonded ferwars slightly, a mar
vel of grace, the perfectly nodded form
swaying ever gently. as If responding to
the measures of hymn of the heart The
brown Of her raiment blended with the