There
is very deep happiness sometimes in thoughtfulness,--do you not know
it? What makes you quiet when you row in and out of the shadow-filled
coves along the river-border, or when you drift among the islands purple
with sunset light? What makes you want to shut your eyes, and to throw
away the mask of seeming, when some one sings the song you love? and
what makes you feel a kind of dead, low, dreadful pause, when the
reader's voice ceases, and the story conies to an end? Are you moody?
No; only resting. Your being is suspended in thought,--thought so
serious yet so delicate, so subtle, you cannot weave it into words.
Sometimes, to be sure, a girl who is determined to be morbid will
distort such serene feelings into moodiness; but, then, these sudden
spells of dejection are only distantly related to the real blue urchins.
Perhaps, girls, it will be better for you if you make up your minds
early in life that your lot will probably be about like that of the
average girl,--that trouble must come, and even a skeleton must hang
and gibber behind your door; but that, be the skeleton what it may,
you will nail the door back on the unsightly thing, clothe it in some
decent garments, and make it as respectable as possible in its niche,
since it must stay with you. Events, decrees, circumstances, will not
change for just you and me; but we can change ourselves, and so defeat
them.
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