The real Darby and Joan.

I do not believe in the “Darby and Joan” of the song.  They belong to song-land.  To accept them I need a piano, a sympathetic contralto voice, a firelight effect, and that sentimental mood in myself, the foundation of which is a good dinner well digested.  But there are Darbys and Joans of real flesh and blood to be met with—God bless them, and send more for our example—wholesome living men and women, brave, struggling, souls with common-sense.  Ah, yes! they have quarrelled; had their dark house of bitterness, of hate, when he wished to heaven he had never met her, and told her so.  How could he have guessed those sweet lips could utter such cruel words; those tender eyes, he loved to kiss, flash with scorn and anger?

And she, had she known what lay behind; those days when he knelt before her, swore that his only dream was to save her from all pain.  Passion lies dead; it is a flame that burns out quickly.  The most beautiful face in the world grows indifferent to us when we have sat opposite it every morning at breakfast, every evening at supper, for a brief year or two.  Passion is the seed.  Love grows from it, a tender sapling, beautiful to look upon, but wondrous frail, easily broken, easily trampled on during those first years of wedded life.  Only by much nursing, by long caring-for, watered with tears, shall it grow into a sturdy tree, defiant of the winds, ’neath which Darby and Joan shall sit sheltered in old age.

They had commonsense, brave hearts.  Darby had expected too much.  Darby had not made allowance for human nature which he ought to have done, seeing how much he had of it himself.  Joan knows he did not mean it.  Joan has a nasty temper; she admits it.  Joan will try, Darby will try.  They kiss again with tears.  It is a workaday world; Darby and Joan will take it as it is, will do their best.  A little kindness, a little clasping of the hands before night comes.