For the good woman who has to “work for her living,” and who pretends to enjoy the healthful after-pains in her moral system, is rarely tolerant of the existence of the _leichtsinnïge_ sister for whom, as to Elijah at the brook, dainty morsels without labour are cheerfully provided by that inconsequent raven, man. This lady goes gaily, wearing what she has not spun, reaping where she has not sown. Sad reflections these for the high-souled woman whose enlightened demand for justice turns in its present day impotency to wrath and bitterness. Wisdom and foresight are never the attributes of the wife-woman. Charm, beguilement, fascination of sorts, form her poor equipment for life’s selective struggle. These gifts cannot be said to promise, save when the stars are in happiest conjunction, long life and useful days for her intimates. Variations of the two types of Primitive Woman may abound, but the broad distinction between them is clearly cut and readily to be made out by the dullest groper after truth. We can imagine a modern Daniel addressing (quite uselessly) a modern disciple thus: “Look to it now, O young man! that your feet go straight, and slip not in search for the pearl that may be hid away for you. For she who loveth you best may work you all evil, and she who loveth her own soul’s travail best will hardly fail you in the days and the years. But Love remaineth, and the way of return is not.” “Tell me not Now” By William Watson Tell me not now, if love for love Thou canst return,-- Now while around us and above Day’s flambeaux burn. Not in clear noon, with speech as clear, Thy heart avow, For every gossip wind to hear; Tell me not now! Tell me not now the tidings sweet, The news divine; A little longer at thy feet Leave me to pine. I would not have the gadding bird Hear from his bough; Nay, though I famish for a word, Tell me not now! But when deep trances of delight All Nature seal; When round the world the arms of Night Caressing steal; When rose to dreaming rose says, “_Dear, Dearest_;” and when Heaven sighs her secret in Earth’s ear,-- Ah, tell me then! From a Lithograph By George Thomson [Illustration] The Headswoman By Kenneth Grahame I