Clearfield Republican

No doubt many a woman has gone into her room and had a "good cry" because her husband called her by her baptismal name, not by that absurd nick name invented in the days of their folly: or because pressed for time, he hurried out of the house without going through the established formula of leave-taking.

The lover has merged into a husband, security has taken the place of wooing; and the woman does not take kindly to the transformation. Sometimes she plays a dangerous game, and tries what flirting with another man will do. If her scheme does not answer, and her husband not made jealous, she is revolted and holds herself that hardly used being, a neglected wife. Then she will perhaps sulk. He notes the change of conduct, and feeling he is not to blame, hesitates to take the initiative of smoothing matters.

Nothing is in reality more annoying than the display of affection which some husbands and wives show each other in society. That familiarity of touch, those half concealed caresses, those absurd names, that prodigality of endearing epithets, and devoted attention which they flaunt in the face of the public as a kind of challenge to the world at large to come and admire their happiness is always noticed and laughed at, and sometimes more than laughed at.

Yet to some women this parade of love is the very essence of married happiness. They believe themselves admired and envied, when they are ridiculed and scoffed at: and they think their husbands are models for other men to copy, when they are taken as examples to avoid.

Men who have any real manliness, however do not give in to this kind of thing; though there are some as effeminate and gushing as women themselves, who like this sleepy effusive ness of love, and carry it on into quite old age, fondling the ancient grand- mother with gray hairs as lavishly as they had fondled the youthful bride, and seeing no want of harmony in calling an old dame of sixty and upwards by the pet names by which they had called her when she was a chip of a girl of eighteen.

The continuance of love from youth to old age is very cheering; but even "John Anderson, my Jo," would lose its pathos if Mrs. Anderson had ignored the difference between the raven locks and the snowy crown of her venerable John.