From the Rock Island Argus, June 20, 1914. By Henry Howland
She railed at the man who had wooed her, because
He was not such a man as another man was;
She scolded him over the teacups and when
The market went wrong she scolded again;
She complained when he smoked, it was sinful, she said;
She complained when he took up his paper and read;
Each day she complained that his love had grown cold
And she sighed to be loved as he loved her of old;
She envied her neighbor and murmured, “Ah, me!
Her husband still loves her! How happy I’d be
To be loved as she is, to be cherished—alas!
How our idols are broken, how soon the dreams pass!”
Her neighbor, so blessed and so cherished, had praise
For him that so loved her; in many glad ways
She showed that she thought him exalted and wise;
She flattered him fondly; she watched with glad eyes
To see him approaching, to greet him at night;
She brought his cigar and she gave him a light;
When he made a mistake, as the wisest may do,
It was never his fault, that she told him she knew.
She was satisfied just as he was; she would not
Have him changed by the very least tittle or jot.
And through days that were fair and through days that were gray
She loved and was loved and went singing away.
There is nothing more sure, more absolute than
That no woman can scold love into a man.
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