The Song of Songs, which is the _widow’s_.
When I was a _rib_, I spoke as a rib, and all my ways were the ways of
a rib.
Lo, I took man _seriously_, even as he took himself. For him did I rush
the breakfast--and keep it waiting.
Unto him did I offer up the palm--and the morning paper. All his
opinions were right in mine eyes; and because _he_ said a thing, it was
_so_.
He was the Lord of my Heart, and the Source of mine Income. And in him
I saw nothing _funny_; for my sense of humor had not yet been awakened.
He looked at my hats and mocked them. Yet that inverted salad bowl
which he called a “derby” did not arouse my mirth. He waxed satirical
at the number of my puffs, and my coiffure was a daily target for his
wit. Yet, though he cut all the hair from off his head, and left it to
grow upon his face, I felt no merriment.
In his conceit he made of me a human joke.
But now that I am become a widow, I see him as he is. Therefore shall I
arise and smite him in his vanity.
Lo, what woman shall take men seriously, once she hath been married
unto one of these? For he, that seemeth a thing of beauty and wisdom
unto many virgins, is but a child in the eyes of his wife.
She knoweth the source of his opinions; and the padding of his
shoulders is not hidden from her. His grouches are always with her and
his digestion is her burden.
Go to! I have seen him at his mirror when he worked upon the parting of
his hair. He hath borrowed my powder for his chin, and with my perfume
hath he anointed himself. My nail-polish and my eau de cologne, they
were not safe from him.
I have flattered him and beheld his fall. I have said unto him, “My
love, thy judgment is above question and thy common sense above praise!”
And he hath smiled, as one that sippeth a wine of a rare vintage.