of the furniture that should stand in the rooms, the pattern of the
silver that should adorn our table. Our ideas were clear and positive.

Unfortunately Clara had eight rich relatives who approved of me and I
had three maiden aunts, two of whom were in precarious health and must
not be financially offended.

I am rather an imperious man, with theories that a woman is happiest
when she finds a master; but when the details of the wedding came up for
decision I was astounded to find myself not only flouted but actually
forced to humiliating surrender. Since then I have learned that my own
case was not glaringly exceptional. At the time, however, I was
nonplused and rather disturbed in my dreams of the future. I had decided
on a house wedding with but the family and a few intimate friends to be
present at my happiness. After Clara had done me the honor to consult
me, several thousand cards were sent out for the ceremony at the church
and an addition was begun on the front veranda.

Clara herself led me to the library and analyzed the situation to me, in
the profoundest manner.

"You dear, old, impracticable goose," she said with the wisdom of just
twenty, "what do you know about such things? How much do you suppose it
will cost us to furnish a house the way we want?"

I said airily, "Oh, about five hundred dollars."

"Take out your pencil," said Clara scornfully, "and write."

When she finished her dictation, and I had added up the items with a
groan, I was dumbfounded. I said:

"Clara, do you think it is wise--do you think we have any right to get
married?"

"Of course we have."

"Then we must make up our minds to boarding."

"Nonsense! we shall have everything just as we planned it."

"But how?"

"Wedding presents," said Clara triumphantly, "now do you see why it must
be a church wedding?"

I began to see.

"But isn't it a bit mercenary?" I said feebly. "Does every one do it?"

"Every one. It is a sort of tax on the unmarried," said Clara with a
determined shake of her head. "Quite right that it should be, too."

"Then every one who receives an invitation is expected to contribute to
our future welfare?"

"An invitation to the house."

"Well, to the house--then?"

"Certainly."

"Ah, now, my dear, I begin to understand why the presents are always
shown."

For all answer Clara extended the sheet of paper on which we had made
our calculations.

I capitulated.




II


I pass over the wedding. In theory I have grown more and more opposed to
such exhibitions. A wedding is more pathetic than a funeral, and
nothing, perhaps, is more out of place than the jubilations of the
guests. When a man and a woman, as husband and wife, have lived together
five years, then the community should engage a band and serenade them,
but at the outset--however, I will not insist--I am doubtless cynically
inclined. I come to the moment when, having successfully weathered the
pitfalls of the honeymoon (there's another mistaken theory--but let that
pass) my wife and I found ourselves at last in our own home, in the
midst of our wedding presents. I say in the midst advisably. Clara sat
helplessly in the middle of the parlor rug and I glowered from the
fireplace.

"My dear Clara," I said, with just a touch of asperity, "you've had your
way about the wedding. Now you've got your wedding presents. What are
you going to do with them?"

"If people only wouldn't have things marked!" said Clara irrelevantly.

"But they always do," I replied. "Also I may venture to suggest that
your answer doesn't solve the difficulty."

"Don't be cross," said Clara.

"My dear," I replied with excellent good-humor, "I'm not. I'm only
amused--who wouldn't be?"

"Don't be horrid, George," said Clara.

"It _is_ deliciously humorous," I continued. "Quite the most humorous
thing I have ever known. I am not cross and I am not horrid; I have made
a profound discovery. I know now why so many American marriages are not
happy."

"Why, George?"

"Wedding presents," I said savagely, "exactly that, my dear. This being
forced to live years of married life surrounded by things you don't
want, you never will want, and which you've got to live with or lose
your friends."

"Oh, George!" said Clara, gazing around helplessly, "it is terrible,
isn't it?"

"Look at that rug you are sitting on," I said, glaring at a six by ten
modern French importation. "Cauliflowers contending with unicorns,
surrounded by a border of green roses and orange violets--expensive! And
until the lamp explodes or the pipes burst we have got to go on and on
and on living over that, and why?--because dear Isabel will be here once
a week!"

"I thought Isabel would have better taste," said Clara.

"She has--Isabel has perfect taste, depend upon it," I said, "she did it
on purpose!"

"George!"

"Exactly that. Have you noticed that married people give the most
impossible presents? It is revenge, my dear. Society has preyed upon
them. They will prey upon society. Wait until we get a chance!"

"It is awful!" said Clara.

"Let us continue. We have five French rugs; no two could live together.
Five rooms desecrated. Our drawing-room is Art Nouveau, furnished by
your Uncle James, who is strong and healthy and may live twenty years.
I particularly abominate Art Nouveau furniture."

"So do I."

"Our dining-room is distinctly Grand Rapids."

"Now, George!"

"It is."

"Well, it was your Aunt Susan."

"It was, but who suggested it? I pass over the bedrooms. I will simply
say that they are nightmares. Expensive nightmares! I come to the
lamps--how many have we?"

"Fourteen."

"Fourteen atrocities, imitation Louis Seize, bogus Oriental, feathered,
laced and tasseled. So much for useful presents. Now for decoration. We
have three Sistine Madonnas (my particular abomination). Two, thank
heaven, we can inflict on the next victims, one we have got to live with
and why?--so that each of our three intimate friends will believe it his
own. We have water colors and etchings which we don't want, and a
photograph copy of every picture that every one sees in every one's
house. Some original friend has even sent us a life-size, marble
reproduction of the Venus de Milo. These things will be our artistic
home. Then there are vases--"

"Now you are losing your temper."

"On the contrary, I'm reserving it. I shan't characterize the
bric-à-brac, that was to be expected."

"Don't!"

"At least that is not marked. I come at last to the silver. Give me the
list."

Clara sighed and extended it.

"Four solid silver terrapin dishes."

"Marked."

"Marked--Terrapin--ha! ha! Two massive, expensive, solid silver
champagne coolers."

"Marked."

"Marked, my dear--for each end of the table when we give our beefsteak
dinners. Almond dishes."

"Don't!"

"Forty-two individual, solid or filigree almond dishes; forty-two,
Clara."

"Marked."

"Right again, dear. One dozen bonbon dishes, five nouveau riche sugar
shakers (we never use them), three muffineers--in heaven's name, what's
that? Solid silver bread dishes, solid silver candlesticks by the dozen,
solid silver vegetable dishes, and we expect one servant and an
intermittent laundress to do the cooking, washing, make the beds and
clean the house besides."

"All marked," said Clara dolefully.

"Every one, my dear. Then the china and the plates, we can't even eat
out of the plates we want or drink from the glasses we wish; everything
in this house, from top to bottom has been picked out and inflicted upon
us against our wants and in defiance of our own taste and we--we have
got to go on living with them and trying not to quarrel!"

"You have forgotten the worst of all," said Clara.

"No, my darling, I have not forgotten it. I have thought of nothing
else, but I wanted you to mention it."

"The flat silver, George."

"The flat silver, my darling. Twelve dozen, solid silver and teaset to
match, bought without consulting us, by your two rich bachelor uncles in
collusion. We wanted Queen Anne or Louis Seize, simple, dignified,
something to live with and grow fond of, and what did we get?"

"Oh, dear, they might have asked me!"

"But they don't, they never do, that is the theory of wedding presents,
my dear. We got Pond Lily pattern, repoussé until it scratches your
fingers. Pond Lily pattern, my dear, which I loathe, detest, and
abominate!"

"I too, George."

"And that, my dear, we shall never get rid of; we not only must adopt
and assume the responsibility, but must pass it down to our children and
our children's children."

"Oh, George, it is terrible--terrible! What are we going to do?"

"My darling Clara, we are going to put a piece of bric-à-brac a day on
the newel post, buy a litter of puppies to chew up the rugs, select a
butter-fingered, china-breaking waitress, pay storage on the silver and
try occasionally to set fire to the furniture."

"But the flat silver, George, what of that?"

"Oh, the flat silver," I said gloomily, "each one has his cross to bear,
that shall be ours."




III


We were, as has been suggested, a relatively rich couple. That's a pun!
At the end of five years a relative on either side left us a graceful
reminder. The problem of living became merely one of degree. At the end
of this period we had made considerable progress in the building up of a
home which should be in fact and desire entirely ours. That is, we had
been extensively fortunate in the preservation of our wedding presents.
Our twenty-second housemaid broke a bottle of ink over the parlor rug,
her twenty-one predecessors (whom I had particularly selected) had
already made the most gratifying progress among the bric-à-brac, two
intelligent Airdale puppies had chewed satisfactory holes in the Art
Nouveau furniture, even the Sistine Madonna had wrenched loose from its
supports and considerately annihilated the jewel-studded Oriental lamp
in the general smashup.

Our little home began at last to really reflect something of the
artistic taste on which I pride myself. There remained at length only
the flat silver and a few thousand dollars' worth of solid silver
receptacles for which we had now paid four hundred dollars storage. But
these remained, secure, fixed beyond the assaults of the imagination.

One morning at the breakfast table I laid down my cup with a crash.

Clara gave an exclamation of alarm.

"George dear, what is it?"

For all reply I seized a handful of the Pond Lily pattern silver and
gazed at it with a savage joy.

"George, George, what has happened?"

"My dear, I have an idea--a wonderful idea."

"What idea?"

"We will spend the summer in Lone Tree, New Jersey."

Clara screamed.

"Are you in your senses, George?"

"Never more so."

"But it's broiling hot!"

"Hotter than that."

"It is simply deluged with mosquitoes."

"There _are_ several mosquitoes there."

"It's a hole in the ground!"

"It certainly is."

"And the only people we know there are the Jimmy Lakes, whom I detest."

"I can't bear them."

"And, George, there are _burglars_!"

"Yes, my dear," I said triumphantly, "heaven be praised there _are_
burglars!"

Clara looked at me. She is very quick.

"You are thinking of the silver."

"Of all the silver."

"But, George, can we afford it?"

"Afford what?"

"To have the silver stolen."

"Supposing there was a burglar insurance, as a reward."

The next moment Clara was laughing in my arms.

"Oh, George, you are a wonderful, brilliant man: how did you ever think
of it?"

"I just put my mind to it," I said loftily.




IV


We went to Lone Tree, New Jersey. We went there early to meet the
migratory spring burglar. We released from storage two chests and three
barrels of solid silver wedding presents, took out a burglar insurance
for three thousand dollars and proceeded to decorate the dining-room and
parlor.

"It looks rather--rather nouveau riche," said Clara, surveying the
result.

"My dear, say the word--it is vulgar. But what of that? We have come
here for a purpose and we will not be balked. Our object is to offer
every facility to the gentlemen who will relieve us of our silver.
Nothing concealed, nothing screwed to the floor."

"I think," said Clara, "that the champagne coolers are unnecessary."

The solid silver champagne coolers adorned either side of the fireplace.

"As receptacles for potted ferns they are, it is true, not quite in the
best of taste," I admitted. "We might leave them in the hall for
umbrellas and canes. But then they might be overlooked, and we must take
no chances on a careless burglar."

Clara sat down and began to laugh, which I confess was quite the natural
thing to do. Solid silver bread dishes holding sweet peas, individual
almond dishes filled with matches, silver baskets for cigars and
cigarettes crowded the room, with silver candlesticks sprouting from
every ledge and table. The dining-room was worse--but then solid silver
terrapin dishes and muffineers, not to mention the two dozen almond
dishes left over from the parlor, are not at all appropriate
decorations.

"I'm sure the burglars will never come," said Clara, woman fashion.

"If there's anything will keep them away," I said, a little provoked,
"it's just that attitude of mind."

"Well, at any rate, I do hope they'll be quick about it, so we can
leave this dreadful place."

"They'll never come if you're going to watch them," I said angrily.

We had quite a little quarrel on that point.

The month of June passed and still we remained in possession of our
wedding silver. Clara was openly discouraged and if I still clung to my
faith, at the bottom I was anxious and impatient. When July passed
unfruitfully even our sense of humor was seriously endangered.

"They will never come," said Clara firmly.

"My dear," I replied, "the last time they came in July. All the more
reason that they should change to August."

"They will never come," said Clara a second time.

"Let's bait the hook," I said, trying to turn the subject into a
facetious vein. "We might strew a dozen or so of those individual dishes
down the path to the road."

"They'll never come," said Clara obstinately.

And yet they came.

On the second of August, about two o'clock in the morning I was awakened
out of a deep sleep by the voice of my wife crying:

"George, here's a burglar!"

I thought the joke obvious and ill-timed and sleepily said so.

"But, George dear, he's here--in the room!"

There was something in my wife's voice, a note of ringing exultation,
that brought me bolt upright in bed.

"Put up your hands--quick!" said a staccato voice.

It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventional
bull's-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar.

"Put 'em up!"

My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude.

"Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help," continued the voice,
shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt's revolver, "and this for
you's!"

The slighting allusion I took to the credit of the pink and white
pajamas I wore--but nothing at that moment could have ruffled my
feelings. I was bubbling over with happiness. I wanted to jump up and
hug him in my arms. I listened. Downstairs could be heard the sound of
feet and an occasional metallic ring.

"Oh, George, isn't it too wonderful--wonderful for words!" said Clara,
hysterical with joy.

"I can't believe it," I cried.

"Shut up!" said the voice behind the lantern.

"My dear friend," I said conciliatingly, "there's not the slightest need
of your keeping your finger on that wabbling, cold thing. My feelings
towards you are only the tenderest and the most grateful."

"Huh!"

"The feelings of a brother! My only fear is that you may overlook one or
two articles that I admit are not conveniently exposed."

The bull's-eye turned upon me with a sudden jerk.

"Well, I'll be damned!"

"We have waited for you long and patiently. We thought you would never
come. In fact, we had sort of lost faith in you. I'm sorry. I apologize.
In a way I don't deserve this--I really don't."

"Bughouse!" came from the foot of the bed, in a suppressed mutter. "Out
and out bughouse!"

"Quite wrong," I said cheerily. "I never was in better health. You are
surprised, you don't understand. It's not necessary you should. It would
rob the situation of its humor if you should. All I ask of you is to
take everything, don't make a slip, get it all."

"Oh, do, please, please do!" said Clara earnestly.

The silence at the foot of the bed had the force of an exclamation.

"Above all," I continued anxiously, "don't forget the pots. They stand
on either side of the fireplace, filled with ferns. They are not pewter.
They are solid silver champagne coolers. They are worth--they are
worth--"

"Two hundred apiece," said Clara instantly.

"And don't overlook the muffineers, the terrapin dishes and the
candlesticks. We should be very much obliged--very grateful if you
could find room for them."

Often since I have thought of that burglar and what must have been his
sensations. At the time I was too engrossed with my own feelings. Never
have I enjoyed a situation more. It is true I noticed as I proceeded our
burglar began to edge away towards the door, keeping the lantern
steadily on my face.

"And one favor more," I added, "there are several flocks of individual
silver almond dishes roosting downstairs--"

"Forty-two," said Clara, "twenty-four in the dining-room and eighteen in
the parlor."

"Forty-two is the number; as a last favor please find room for them; if
you don't want them drop them in a river or bury them somewhere. We
really would appreciate it. It's our last chance."

"All right," said the burglar in an altered tone. "Don't you worry now,
we'll attend to that."

"Remember there are forty-two--if you would count them."

"That's all right--just you rest easy," said the burglar soothingly.
"I'll see they all get in."

"Really, if I could be of any assistance downstairs," I said anxiously,
"I might really help."

"Oh, don't you worry, Bub, my pals are real careful muts," said the
burglar nervously. "Now just keep calm. We'll get 'em all."

It suddenly burst upon me that he took me for a lunatic. I buried my
head in the covers and rocked back and forth between tears and laughter.

"Hi! what the ----'s going on up there?" cried a voice from downstairs.

"It's all right--all right, Bill," said our burglar hoarsely, "very
affable party up here. Say, hurry it up a bit down there, will you?"

All at once it struck me that if I really frightened him too much they
might decamp without making a clean sweep. I sobered at once.

"I'm not crazy," I said.

"Sure you're not," said the burglar conciliatingly.

"But I assure you--"

"That's all right."

"I'm perfectly sane."

"Sane as a house!"

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"Course there isn't. Hi, Bill, won't you hurry up there!"

"I'll explain--"

"Don't you mind that."

"This is the way it is--"

"That's all right, we know all about it."

"You do--"

"Sure, we got your letter."

"What letter?"

"Your telegram then."

"See here, I'm not crazy--"

"You bet you're not," said the burglar, edging towards the door and
changing the key.

"Hold up!" I cried in alarm, "don't be a fool. What I want is for you to
get everything--everything, do you hear?"

"All right, I'll just go down and speak to him."

"Hold up--"

"I'll tell him."

"Wait," I cried, jumping out of bed in my desire to retain him.

At that moment a whistle came from below and with an exclamation of
relief our burglar slammed the door and locked it. We heard him go down
three steps at a time and rush out of the house.

"Now you've scared them away," said Clara, "with your idiotic humor."

I felt contrite and alarmed.