- Pleasure Book
Courtesy: Positve Club
She is an aged woman, but her face is serene, and peaceful, though trouble has not passed her by.
She seems utterly above the little worries and vexations which torment the average woman and leave lines of cares.
A fretful Woman asked her one day the secret of her happiness; and the beautiful old face shone with joy.
"My dear," she said, "I keep a Pleasure Book."
"A Pleasure Book. Long ago I learned that there is no day so dark and gloomy that it does not contain some ray of light, and I have made it one business of my life to write down the little things which mean so much to a woman.
I have a book marked for every day of every year since I left school. It is but a little thing: the new gown, the chat with a friend, the thoughtfulness of my husband, a flower, a book, a walk in the field, a letter, a concert, or a drive:
but it all goes into my Pleasure Book, and, when I am inclined to fret, I read a few pages to see what a happy, blessed woman I am.
You may see my treasures if you will."
"Slowly the peevish, discontented woman turned over the book her friend brought her, reading a little here and there.
One day's entries ran thus: "Had a pleasant letter from mother. Saw a beautiful lily in a window. Found the pin I thought I had lost. Saw such a bright, happy girl on the street. Husband brought some roses in the evening."
"Have you found a pleasure for every day?" the discontented Woman asked.
"For every day," the low voice answered; "I had to make my theory come true, you know."
The Fretful Woman ought to have stopped there, but did not; and she found that page where it was written:
"He died with his hand in mine, and my name upon his lips."
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"I'm awfully worried this morning," said one woman. "What is it ?"
"Why? I thought of something to worry about last night, and now I can't remember it."
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