The Opinions of a Philosopher | Page 4

darling; but she has forgotten her fears
and her tears to-day in the happy consciousness that as surely as the
bells begin to ring on Sunday morning I begin to brush my silk hat with
the feverish impatience of an abandoned church-goer. Punctuality,
which has always seemed to Josephine a pitiful sort of virtue, ranks in
my category of human conduct almost on a par with brotherly love, and
I am apt to make myself and her pretty miserable on each returning
Sabbath by my endeavors to get the family out of the house and into
our pew on time. It is only by bearing strictly in mind what day it is
that I am able to keep my lips from speaking guile when little Fred
remembers at the last moment that he has forgotten his
pocket-handkerchief or Josephine's glove bursts open in the process of
being hastily rammed on and I am compelled to wait while she sends
upstairs for a fresh pair. You should see how her nostrils swell with

pride as we sweep by my old pal, Nicholas Long, and his wife, who are
manifestly not going to church. I can discern on Nick's face, as we pass,
an expression which is half sardonic, half pitiful. Evidently he has not
forgotten my quondam oft-repeated vow that no child of mine should
be taught the orthodox fairy tales in unlearning which I had spent some
of the best years of my life. And now I am a recreant, and he who aided
and abetted me in my asseverations of independence remains faithful.
Yes, but Nick, poor fellow, has no children. His grin seems to say, "See
what you are missing, poor old patriarch; Dorothy and I are off for a
ten-mile tramp in the country."
Yet, despite his apparent jubilation of spirit, I detect a longing
expression in Dorothy's eyes and I notice that she steals a second
glance over her tailor-made shoulder at little Winona, our youngest,
who is an uncommonly pretty child, if I do say it.
"There go a light-hearted, honest couple with the courage of their
convictions," I remark to Josephine, tentatively. "Before the sermon has
begun they will be on the river and they will come home delightfully
tired just in time for dinner."
"Light-hearted? I believe, Fred, that they are both perfectly miserable,"
she exclaimed, with a sweeping glance of pride at her progeny. "I was
thinking just before you spoke how much I pitied that woman."
I can remember as if it were yesterday Nick Long telling me with
bubbling ecstasy, shortly after he was engaged, that his lady-love had a
clear, analytical mind, almost like a man's. "No nonsense about her," he
said. "She sees things just as they are." I rather got the impression at the
time that he intended thereby to insinuate gently but plainly that he was
a far luckier dog than I who had married a woman with a mind
conspicuously feminine. I should like very much to know whether, if
Dorothy were to be blessed with children after all, Nick would have to
go to church.
Not only have I lost moral courage in the matter of some of my deepest
convictions, but I notice also with consternation that my physical
bravery is ebbing away as my years increase. I have drawn the line, for

example, squarely and tautly on burglars. One night not very long since
I was awakened by noise and, after listening, I came to the conclusion
that it proceeded from housebreakers. I slipped out of bed stealthily and
put my ear to the bolted chamber door in order to confirm my
conviction. My movements aroused Josephine, who sat up in bed and
asked hoarsely what the matter was. I put my finger on my lips quite
irrelevantly, for it was pitch dark.
"Fred, are there burglars in the house?" she gasped.
"Sh! Yes."
"What are you doing, Fred? Oh, you mus'n't go down and expose
yourself on any account." She was evidently very much agitated.
"Promise me that you will not."
Having ascertained that the door was secure I walked across the room
and turned on the electric light. Josephine was sitting bolt upright,
quivering with excitement. Her eyes followed my every movement, as,
having slipped on my trousers and a pair of boots, I began to look
around me, tramping sturdily.
"Fred, they'll hear you if you make such a noise," said my wife, in an
agonized whisper.
"I fervently trust so," I retorted. "That's why I'm doing it."
As I spoke my eye lit at last on something adapted to my purpose. I had
been trying to avoid the destruction of a wash basin, and I seized with
grateful eagerness the pair of Indian clubs which offered themselves
and, lifting them