Part 70 (1/2)
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER
1.00 A YEAR .10 A COPY
Volume 1. No. 7 MAY, 1910 Copyright for 1910 C. P. Gilman
Having made pockets, we need not carry so many things in our hands.
Having made books, we need not carry so many things in our heads.
BRAIN SERVICE
We offer our hearts to G.o.d, contrite and broken; Why not offer our brains, whole and alive?
Why follow the grovelling words wailing old races have spoken?
Bow and submit, when we ought to resist and strive!
What is this ”heart” that you offer? A circulator, An organ that quivers and starts at the fears of the hour.
Why not offer your head? And hold it straighter?
Bring to the service of G.o.d your n.o.blest power?
When we learn to credit Him with our great ideals, and greater-- When we all stand up at last, stop kissing the rod-- When we bring the brains of to-day to seek and serve the Creator-- G.o.d will look better to us, and we shall look better to G.o.d.
WHEN I WAS A WITCH
If I had understood the terms of that one-sided contract with Satan, the Time of Witching would have lasted longer--you may be sure of that. But how was I to tell? It just happened, and has never happened again, though I've tried the same preliminaries as far as I could control them.
The thing began all of a sudden, one October midnight--the 30th, to be exact. It had been hot, really hot, all day, and was sultry and thunderous in the evening; no air stirring, and the whole house stewing with that ill-advised activity which always seems to move the steam radiator when it isn't wanted.
I was in a state of simmering rage--hot enough, even without the weather and the furnace--and I went up on the roof to cool off. A top-floor apartment has that advantage, among others--you can take a walk without the mediation of an elevator boy!
There are things enough in New York to lose one's temper over at the best of times, and on this particular day they seemed to all happen at once, and some fresh ones. The night before, cats and dogs had broken my rest, of course. My morning paper was more than usually mendacious; and my neighbor's morning paper--more visible than my own as I went down town--was more than usually salacious. My cream wasn't cream--my egg was a relic of the past. My ”new” napkins were giving out.
Being a woman, I'm supposed not to swear; but when the motorman disregarded my plain signal, and grinned as he rushed by; when the subway guard waited till I was just about to step on board and then slammed the door in my face--standing behind it calmly for some minutes before the bell rang to warrant his closing--I desired to swear like a mule-driver.
At night it was worse. The way people paw one's back in the crowd! The cow-puncher who packs the people in or jerks them out--the men who smoke and spit, law or no law--the women whose saw-edged cart-wheel hats, swas.h.i.+ng feathers and deadly pins, add so to one's comfort inside.
Well, as I said, I was in a particularly bad temper, and went up on the roof to cool off. Heavy black clouds hung low overhead, and lightning flickered threateningly here and there.
A starved, black cat stole from behind a chimney and mewed dolefully.
Poor thing! She had been scalded.
The street was quiet for New York. I leaned over a little and looked up and down the long parallels of twinkling lights. A belated cab drew near, the horse so tired he could hardly hold his head up.
Then the driver, with a skill born of plenteous practice, flung out his long-lashed whip and curled it under the poor beast's belly with a stinging cut that made me shudder. The horse shuddered too, poor wretch, and jingled his harness with an effort at a trot.
I leaned over the parapet and watched that man with a spirit of unmitigated ill-will.
”I wish,” said I, slowly--and I did wish it with all my heart--”that every person who strikes or otherwise hurts a horse unnecessarily, shall feel the pain intended--and the horse not feel it!”