sting than a cold. He can brave a moonlight walk adown sweet-scented
lanes or a twilight pull among the somber rushes. He can get over a
stile without danger, scramble through a tangled hedge without being
caught, come down a slippery path without falling. He can look into
sunny eyes and not be dazzled. He listens to the siren voices, yet sails
on with unveered helm. He clasps white hands in his, but no electric
"Lulu"-like force holds him bound in their dainty pressure.

No, we never sicken with love twice. Cupid spends no second arrow on
the same heart. Love's handmaids are our life-long friends. Respect, and
admiration, and affection, our doors may always be left open for, but
their great celestial master, in his royal progress, pays but one visit
and departs. We like, we cherish, we are very, very fond of--but we
never love again. A man's heart is a firework that once in its time
flashes heavenward. Meteor-like, it blazes for a moment and lights
with its glory the whole world beneath. Then the night of our sordid
commonplace life closes in around it, and the burned-out case, falling
back to earth, lies useless and uncared for, slowly smoldering into
ashes. Once, breaking loose from our prison bonds, we dare, as mighty
old Prometheus dared, to scale the Olympian mount and snatch from
Phoebus' chariot the fire of the gods. Happy those who, hastening down
again ere it dies out, can kindle their earthly altars at its flame.
Love is too pure a light to burn long among the noisome gases that we
breathe, but before it is choked out we may use it as a torch to ignite
the cozy fire of affection.

And, after all, that warming glow is more suited to our cold little back
parlor of a world than is the burning spirit love. Love should be the
vestal fire of some mighty temple--some vast dim fane whose organ music
is the rolling of the spheres. Affection will burn cheerily when the
white flame of love is flickered out. Affection is a fire that can be
fed from day to day and be piled up ever higher as the wintry years draw
nigh. Old men and women can sit by it with their thin hands clasped, the
little children can nestle down in front, the friend and neighbor has
his welcome corner by its side, and even shaggy Fido and sleek Titty can
toast their noses at the bars.

Let us heap the coals of kindness upon that fire. Throw on your pleasant
words, your gentle pressures of the hand, your thoughtful and unselfish
deeds. Fan it with goo