m of both brains and good
looks.

The recipe I read set me a-thinking. I was in my library, before a big
log fire. The room was comfortable; glowing with rich, warm firelight
at that moment, but it was lonesome, and I was lonely.

Supposing, I said to myself, I really had a husband; how should I cook
him?

The words of an old lady came into my mind. She had listened to this
particular recipe, and after a moment's silence had leaned over, and
whispered in my ear:

"First catch your fish."

But supposing he were now caught, and seated in that rocker across from
me, before this blazing fire.

I walked to the window--to one side of me lives a little thrush, at least
she is trim and comely, and always dresses in brown. Just now she is
without her door, stooping over her baby, who is sitting like a tiny
queen in her chariot, just returned from an airing.

It isn't the question of husband alone--he might be managed--roasted,
stewed, or parboiled, but it's the whole family--a household. Take the
children, for instance; if they could be set up on shelves in glass
cases, as fast as they came, all might be well, but they _will_ run
around, and Heaven only knows what they will run into. Why, had I
children, I should plug both ears with cotton, for fear I should hear
the door-bell. I know it would ring constantly, and such messages as
these would be hurled in:

"Several of them have been arrested for blowing up the neighbors with
dynamite firecrackers."

"Half a dozen of them have tumbled from off the roof of the house. They
escaped injury, but have thrown a nervous lady, over the way, into
spasms."

"One or two of them have just been dragged from beneath the electric
cars. They seem to be as well as ever, but three of the passengers died
of fright."

Just think of that! What should I do?

Keep an extra maid to answer the bell, I suppose, and two or three
thousand dollars by me continually, to pay damages.

What a time poor Job had of it answering his door bell, and how very
unpleasant it must have been to receive so many pieces of news of that
sort, in one morning!

Clearly I am better off in my childless condition, and yet----

Little Mrs. Thrush is just kissing her soft, round-faced cherub. I wish
she would do that out of sight.

Now as to husbands again, if I had one, what should I do with him?

I might say, Sit down.

Supposing he wouldn't. What then?

Cudgels are out of date. Were he an alderman, I m