through the gray chilly paths of the dawn The soul of the beautiful baby passed on Into Mother-filled lands. 

So she left him. That night

 Ah! my God, the despair Of seeing that agonized sufferer there; To stand by his side, yet denied the relief Of sharing, as wife, and as mother, his grief. Enough! I have borne all I can bear. The role Of friend to a lover pulls hard on the soul Of a sensitive woman. The three words in life Which have meaning to me are home, mother and wife— Or, rather, wife, mother and home. Once I thought Men cared for the women who found home the spot Next to heaven for happiness; women who knew No ambition beyond being loyal and true, And who loved all the tasks of the housewife. I learn, Instead, that from women of that kind men turn, With a yawn, unto those who are useless; who live For the poor hollow world and for what it can give, And who make home the spot where, when other joys cease, One sleeps late when one wishes. 

Ah! my God, the despair

 You left me Maurice Left the home I have kept since our dear Mother died, With such sisterly love and such housewifely pride, And you wandered afar, and for what cause, forsooth? Oh! because a vain, self-loving woman, in truth, Had been faithless. The man whom I worshiped, ignored The love and the comfort my woman's heart stored In its depths for his taking, and sought Mabel Lee. Well, I'm done with the role of the housewife. I see There is nothing in being domestic. The part Is unpicturesque, and at war with all art. The senile old Century leers with dim eyes At our sex and demands that we shock or surprise His thin blood into motion. The home's not the place To bring a pleased smile to his wicked old face. To the mandate I bow; since all strive for that end, I must join the great throng! I am leaving Bay Bend This day week. I will see you in town as I pass To the college at C——, where I enter the class Of medical students—I fancy you will Like to see my name thus—Dr. Ruth Somerville." 

You left me Maurice

 Maurice dropped the long, closely written epistle, Stared hard at the wall, and gave vent to a whistle. A Doctor! his sweet, little home-loving sister. A Doctor! one might as well prefix a Mister To Ruth Somerville, that most feminine name. And then in the wake of astonishment came Keen pity for all she had suffered.  "Poor Ruth, She writes like an agonized woman, in truth, And like one torn with jealousy. Ah, I can see," He mused, "how the pure soul of sweet Mabel Lee Revolts 

 Prev. P 26/69 next