The Kind That Last.
There must be a very sensible little girl down in New Haven. The Palladium tells about her, and gives her the name of Elinor, whether that is her name or not.
"Elinor," says the Palladium, "was very anxious to bring home an Angora cat from Maine last summer. Her mother objected, thinking that the care of a cat from Maine to Connecticut was entirely too arduous a task, so she tried to 'buy off' Elinor. 'If you will say no more about the cat,' she said, 'I will give you a dollar to spend in Boston.' Elinor looked quite thoughtful for a moment, then said, 'But, mother, how much longer a cat would last than a dollar!' "
Now, is not that delightfully sensible? That girl has a notion of relative values. She wanted the most for her money; or, rather, for her petition. Of course she did not realize that for a dollar she might buy a cat, perhaps two cats; money means very little—happily—to children. Money probably means candy to Elinor, and soda-water, both of which are short-lived. But a cat has nine lives, and all of them are soft and furry ones.
Well for me if I should take a leaf out of Elinor's book. Well for me if in my choice of joys, and of prayers for joys, I should select those pleasures that endure.
The enduring pleasures are not necessarily those of long actual duration in operation. A glorious sunset lasts for half an hour at the most, but I have seen sunsets—some of them twenty or twenty-five years ago—that are still shimmering in the sky of my soul. Again, there are extended pleasures, like vacations unwisely planned, that dwindle to mere incidents in the diminishing glass of disgusted memory. Much of the art of true living is to perceive which are the enduring pleasures and make choice of those with all our hearts.
As between cats and coin, let us choose the cats.