upset by their ungrateful children, and
then they have to be continually looking after their brood. I knew one
mother who used to take her daughters on the pier and lose sight of
them at once, as they paired off with their he-acquaintances. Do what
she would she could not find them again, so many were the nooks and
crannies near at hand. Finally she had recourse to the Camera Obscura,
and, with the help of the views set before her there, she found the
missing girls! "We never can escape her now," they told me in mournful
tones, after her fatal discovery.

Girls are degenerating sadly, it is said. They are getting too
masculine, too independent, too different from man's ideal--the modest
little maid who sits at home and mends her husband's socks.

I do not dispute the fact. They _are_ degenerating. Neither, though I
dislike the ideal specimen, and have a contempt for her, do I stand up
for the other extreme. I have a horror of fast masculine girls, and
agree with all that is said against them. Nevertheless, I do not
consider men have any right to complain, as they are the chief cause
of the deterioration of our sex.

Everyone knows that a girl thinks more of a man's opinion than that of
anyone else. If he applauds, then she is satisfied. She does not
consider it ignominy to be termed "a jolly good fellow!" She gets
praise, and in a way admiration, when she caps his good stories,
smokes, and drinks brandies and sodas. Unfortunately, she does not
hear herself discussed when he is alone with his friends, or perhaps
she would be more cautious in her manners and conversation for the
future, for this is not the kind of girl who is

"Rich in the grace all women desire,
Strong in the power that all men adore."

CHAPTER II.

ON BILLS.

BILLS! BILLS! BILLS! Detestable sound! Obnoxious word! Why were such
things ever invented? Why are they sent to destroy our peace of mind?

They always come, too, when you are expecting some interesting letter.
You hurry to meet the postman, you get impatient at the length of time
he takes to separate his packets (I sometimes think these men find
pleasure in tantalizing you, and keep you waiting on purpose), and
when he at last presents you with your long-expected missive, behold,
it turns to dust and ashes in your hand--metaphorically speaking, of
course.

It is a pity such a metamorphosis does not occur in reality; for the
wretched oblong envelope, with the sprawly, fl