THE window sash came hurtling down on Kickshaw’s shapely head and neck;
it nearly spoiled his toilworn crown, and made his ears a hopeless
wreck. Then Kickshaw sat and nursed his head, a man reduced to grievous
pass; yet, with a cheerful smile, he said, “I’m glad it didn’t break the
glass.” He might have ripped around and swore, till people heard him
round a block, or kicked a panel from the door, or thrown the tomcat
through the clock; he might have dealt in language weird, and made the
housewife’s blood run cold, he might have raved and torn his beard, and
wept as Rachel wept of old. But Kickshaw’s made of better stuff, no
tears he sheds, no teeth he grinds; when dire misfortune makes a bluff,
he looks for comfort, which he finds. And so he bears his throbbing
ache, and puts a poultice on his brain, and says, “I’m glad it didn’t
break that rich, imported window pane.” It never helps a man to beef,
when trouble comes and knocks him lame; there’s solace back of every
grief, if he will recognize the same.
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