vowels. Yet, after ten motionless minutes of severe thinking, the
letter was deliberately torn into strips and these into dice, and all
of these went into the waste-paper basket at my elbow. I had concluded
to "abide a wee." If the sun went down that once upon my anger, he
arose upon cold brands and gray ashes. I had not changed my
intellectual belief as to my correspondent's behavior, but the
impropriety of complicating an awkward business by placing myself in
the wrong to the extent of losing my temper was so obvious that I
blushed in recalling the bombastic periods of the torn composition.

Since that lesson, I have never sent off an angry or splenetic letter,
although the temptation to "have it out" upon paper has sometimes got
the better of my more sensible self. If the excitement is particularly
great, and the epistle more than usually eloquent of the fact that, as
the old-time exhorters used to say, I had "great liberty of speech," I
have always left it to cool over night. The "sunset dews" our mothers
sang of took the starch out of the bristling pages, and the "cool,
soft evening-hours," and nightly utterance of--"As we forgive them
that trespass against us,"--drew out the fire.

"You'd better bide a wee!"

I have sometimes thought of writing it down, as poor Jo of "Bleak
House" begged to have his last message to Esther Summerson
transcribed--"werry large,"--and pasting it upon the mirror that, day
by day, reflects a soberer face than I like to see in its sincere
depths--as one hot and hasty soul placarded upon her looking-glass the
single word "PATIENCE." To people whose tempers are quick and
whose actions too often match their tempers, one of the most difficult
of daily duties is to reserve judgment upon that which appears