“Several of them have been arrested for blowing up the neighbors with dynamite firecrackers.” “Half a dozen of them have tumbled from off the roof of the house. They escaped injury, but have thrown a nervous lady, over the way, into spasms.” “One or two of them have just been dragged from beneath the electric cars. They seem to be as well as ever, but three of the passengers died of fright.” Just think of that! What should I do? Keep an extra maid to answer the bell, I suppose, and two or three thousand dollars by me continually, to pay damages. What a time poor Job had of it answering his door bell, and how very unpleasant it must have been to receive so many pieces of news of that sort, in one morning! Clearly I am better off in my childless condition, and yet—— Little Mrs. Thrush is just kissing her soft, round-faced cherub. I wish she would do that out of sight. Now as to husbands again, if I had one, what should I do with him? I might say, Sit down. Supposing he wouldn’t. What then? Cudgels are out of date. Were he an alderman, I might take a Woman’s Club to him, but a husband has been known to laugh this instrument to scorn. But supposing he sat down. What then? He might be a gentleman of irascible, nasty temper, and in walking about my room, I might step on his feet. These irritable folk have such large feet, at least they are always in the way, and always being stepped on no matter how careful one tries to be. What then? I decline to contemplate the scene. Plainly I am better off single. I walk to my front window, and stretch my arms above my head. There is a light fall of snow upon the ground. This late snow is trying: in its season, it is beautiful; but out of season, it breeds a cheerlessness that emphasises one’s loneliness. I look out through the leafless trees toward the lake, but it is hidden by the whirling, eddying snowflakes. I see Mr. Thrush hurrying home to his little nest. “Yes,” I say to myself, repeating my last thought with a certain obstinacy, “yes, I am better off without a husband, and yet I wish I had one—one would answer, on a pinch—one at a time, at least. A husband is like a world in that respect; one at a time, is the proper proportion.” “It’s far better to have none, unless you learn to cook him.” These words recurred to me, just as I was on the point of taking a life partner, in a figurative sense. The woman that deliberates is lost; consequently, as it won’t do to think the matter over, I plunge in. My spouse is now pacing up and down the room in a rampant manner, complaining of his dinner, the world in general, and _me_ in particular. What am I to do? Charles Reade has written a recipe that applies very well just here. It is briefly expressed: “Put yourself in his place.”