“Oh my! I wouldn’t have ’em miss of bein’ married for nothin’ in the world.”
“Good land!” says I. “Is marryin’ the only theme that anybody can lay holt of? It seems to me that the best way would be to lay holt of duty now, and then if a bo comes lay holt of him. But if they catch a bo with such a hook as they are a fishin’ with now, what kind of a bo will it be? Nobody but a fool would lay holt of a hook baited with dime novels, lazyness, deceitfulness, and pups. Learn your girls to be industrious and to respect themselves. They can’t now, Delila Ann, I _know_ they can’t. No woman can feel honorable and reverential towards themselves, when they are a foldin’ their useless hands over their empty souls, waitin’ for some man—no matter who—to marry ’em and support ’em. When in the agony of suspense and fear they have narrowed down to this one theme all their hopes and prayers: “Good Lord, anybody!” But when a woman lays holt of life in a noble earnest way, when she is dutiful, cheerful, and industrious, God-fearin’ and self-respectin’, though the world sinks, there is a rock under her feet that wont let her down fur enough to hurt her any.”
“Oh dear;” says Delila Ann again, “I should think she would want to get married—want to awfully.” Truly everybody has their theme, and marryin’ is hern. But I kep’ cool and says I in calm axents, but sort o’ noble and considerable eloquent:
“If love comes to board with her, so much the better; she will be ready to receive him royally, and keep him when she gets him—some folks don’t know how to use love worth a cent, can’t keep him any length of time. Such a woman wont git crazy as a loon, and wild-eyed, and accept the wrong man—so dead with fear that the right one wont be forth comin’. She wont barter her truth and self respect for a home and housen stuff, and the sham dignity of a false marriage. No mom, or moms; though a regiment of men are at her feet a askin’ her in pleadin’ axents if their bride she will be, her ears will be deaf as a stun to the hull caboodle of ’em, unless the true voice speaks to her; and she wont listen with the ear of flesh, she wont hear it unless her soul can listen. Mebby that voice, that _true_ voice is soundin’ to her heart through the centuries; mebby, like as not, she was born a century too soon, or a hundred years too late—what of it? That don’t scare her a mite, she will keep right on a livin’ jest as calm and collected and happy and contented as anything, till the eternal meetin’ of true souls crowns him and her with the greatness of that love. No, Delila Ann Spicer, such a woman as that, no matter whether she be single or double, I am not afraid of her future.”