A bilious cheek and a sour temper are like the Siamese twins, there's
a nateral cord of union atween them. The one is a sign board, with
the name of the firm written on it in big letters. He that don't
know this, can't read, I guess. It's no use to cry over spilt milk,
we all know, but it's easier said than done, that. Women kind, and
especially single folks, will take on dreadful at the fadin' of their
roses, and their frettin' only seems to make the thorns look sharper.
Our minister used to say to sister Sall (and when she was young she
was a real witch, a'most an everlastin' sweet girl), 'Sally,' he used
to say, 'now's the time to larn when you are young; store your mind
well, dear, and the fragrance will remain long arter the rose has
shed its leaves. The otter of roses is stronger than the rose, and a
plaguy sight more valuable.' Sall wrote it down; she said it warn't
a bad idee that; but father larfed, he said he guessed minister's
courtin' days warn't over, when he made such pretty speeches as
that 'ere to the gals. Now, who would go to expose his wife or his
darters, or himself, to the dangers of such a climate for the sake of
thirty bushels of wheat to the acre instead of fifteen? There seems a
kinder somethin' in us that rises in our throat when we think on it,
and won't let us. We don't like it.
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