The sofa cushion season is coming. This is the time of year when you see the pretty young girl, standing at the satin counter with wrinkles upon her fair young brow; while, afar off, at the denim table, is the matron, upon more durable patterns bent.
To a man all sofa cushions may look alike, but to a woman they are as different as babies. Each has its features, even its characteristics; each its markings; each its aspirations.
The man who will not, within the next six weeks or so, receive a sofa cushion, is a churl. He has done something, forsooth, to his world of feminine friends that all have turned against him. Young woman, married friend, mother and cousin have all alike agreed that he is not worth the pleasing.
Thank heaven, there are few such men. With a world of them the sun of feminine occupation would set; idle would grow the thimble, rusty the needle.
Most men love sofa cushions. If planned by a woman of discretion, the cushion is like a companion — adaptable to moods! In its idle moments it bears a fair serenity upon its face; in troublesome times it is not ruffling. The cushion that cannot be doubled up and punched; cannot be curled and rolled; cannot be tossed upon the floor and picked up again, and thrown against the wall and pounded, is not worthy the name. Nor can it rank among cushionly successes unless it be of the kind that will smooth out and look pretty next day.