My Daughter, a woman is a study in moods and tenses, but man is a
simple proposition which worketh according to a “system”.
Behold, how the two regard a letter. For when a woman writeth she
spelleth her soul out on paper; but a man putteth all his _tender_
meanings between the lines. Yea, a woman’s letter is a confession, but
a man’s letter is a veiled allusion which _concealeth_ his thoughts.
Verily, it is a work of _art_.
Yet, when a woman receiveth it, she readeth it over many times, and
placeth it within her shirtwaist by day, and under her pillow by
night. For she knoweth that, with temptations like unto telephones and
post-cards within reach, a _hand-written letter_ is a sign of devotion.
But, when a man receiveth a woman’s letter, he droppeth it in his
pocket. Nay, not in the pocket above his heart, but in that pocket
which containeth the fewest bills and receipts and lead pencils and
other _valuable_ things.
He carryeth it there faithfully--until he changeth his coat.
He layeth it away in an unused drawer amongst other trash.
He forgetteth it.
And, when years shall have passed, he findeth it and taketh it out
curiously.
He regardeth it with astonishment.
He wrinkleth his brows with his great effort at recollection, saying:
“Now who the dickens wrote this thing? Yea, _who_ is ‘Mabel’?”
He giveth it up.
And lo! he proceedeth to make pipe-lighters of thine heart-to-heart
effusion.
Behold thy letter, like unto his love, goeth up in smoke!