"And what is that, pray?"

"She says that come rain, hail, or fiery vapor, she takes a nap every day."

"I don't know how she manages it; I can't, and I have one less child than she, and a fairly good maid."

"Her children are trained, as children should be; the three younger ones take long naps after luncheon, and while they are sleeping, she gives the oldest child some picture book to look at, and simple stories to read, and she herself goes to sleep in the same room with him. The little fellow keeps as still as a mouse."

"I think that is a cruel shame."

"So do I. It would be far kinder if she let him have his liberty, and stayed up to take care of him, and then became so tired out that, by the time her husband came home she would be unable to keep her mouth (closed for it is only a well rested woman who can maintain a cheerful silence), and avoid a family quarrel."

"No, I think it's better not to quarrel, but I can't take a nap, and often I'm so tired when Fred comes home, that, if he happens to be tired too, it's just like putting fire to gunpowder."

I knew that, for I had heard the explosions from across the street. You know in our climate, in the summer, people practically live in the street, with every window and door open; your neighbor has full possession of all remarks above E. And most of Mr. and Mrs. Purblind's notes on the tired nights, are above E.

I have no patience with that woman, anyhow. She hasn't the first idea of comfort and good cheer. Her rooms are always in disorder, and there is no suggestion of harmony in the furniture (on the contrary every article seems, as the French say, to be swearing at every other article); all her lights are high--why, I've run in there of an evening and found that man wandering around like an uneasy ghost, trying to find some easy spot in which he could sit down, and read his paper comfortably. He didn't know what was the matter--the poor wretches don't, but he was like a cat on an unswept hearth.

In contrast to this woman's stupidity, I have the natural loveliness of the little brown thrush, on my one side, and the hoary-headed wisdom of Mrs. Owl, on my other side.

Look at the latter a moment. Not worth looking at, you say; angular, without beauty of form or feature. Nothing but the humorous curve to her lips, and the twinkle in her eye, to attract one; nothing, unless it were a general air of neatness, intelligence, and good humor.




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