It is a juggler's trick,
and there is no more religion in it than in catching a ball on the fly.
I was looking at our Scheherezade the other day, and thinking what a pity
it was that she had never had fair play in the world. I wish I knew more
of her history. There is one way of learning it,--making love to her. I
wonder whether she would let me and like it. It is an absurd thing, and
I ought not to confess, but I tell you and you only, Beloved, my heart
gave a perceptible jump when it heard the whisper of that possibility
overhead! Every day has its ebb and flow, but such a thought as that is
like one of those tidal waves they talk about, that rolls in like a great
wall and overtops and drowns out all your landmarks, and you, too, if you
don't mind what you are about and stand ready to run or climb or swim.
Not quite so bad as that, though, this time. I take an interest in our
Scheherezade. I am glad she did n't smile on the pipe and the
Bohemian-looking fellow that finds the best part of his life in sucking
at it. A fine thing, isn't it; for a young woman to marry a man who will
hold her
"Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse,"
but not quite so good as his meerschaum? It is n't for me to throw
stones, though, who have been a Nicotian a good deal more than half my
days.
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