ociety any more and he said he's the best
hem-ripper that ever lived, so I think I'll take a chance. Isn't there a
great difference in men, dear? But, in husbands--they vary only in the
color of their hair.

I'm so glad motors stand without hitching. Now you'll say "Can't you
leave men alone for six months?" Sometimes my conscience does get
feverish and bothers me, but it's so seldom that I am grateful for the
change as it acts as a stimulation to my gray matter--whatever that is.

My honest intentions were to leave off my puffs and artificials while
here, just to give Nature a chance, but now that I have been run over by
an auto I consider the plan inadvisable.

There are dandy golf links here but they don't allow "Divorsays" on the
ground. The Sioux Falls women, (cats for short) had it stopped three
years ago, because they were all neglected when any number of my tribe
appeared.

Not a soul knows what I'm here for. One must never tell. That's the
first divorce colony by-law. I have become a perfect diplomat and know
how to keep still in three languages. I just casually told my troubles
to the boarding house keeper and her daughters, but they don't count, as
they are such dears, and it won't go any further.

As long as I live, my attorney says, I must sign in hotel registers from
Sioux Falls--If I do the clerks will stoop to pick cockle burrs and
tumble weeds off my skirts and help me to loosen my Indian
wampum--whatever that is.

Father Time, whom I mentioned in my last and who possesses as much
energy for getting divorces (this being his third time on earth) as
Roosevelt exhibits in the Baby market, has taken to peddling "The Ladies
Home Journal," and the "Saturday Evening Post," and if you only knew how
cunning he looks with his abbreviated coat and short, quick, little
steps, you would give a dollar for a picture of him to paste in your
book of curiosities of the world.

Court was in session last week and all sorts of real Indians paraded the
streets. They weren't like our dear old Irish Indians on Manhattan
Island, who perambulate inside little houses placarded with one night
corn cures; these were the real article and their wives walked behind,
just like New York wives, carrying an orphan asylum on their backs and
provisions for the week on their hips.

Poor down trodden creatures. I feel like organizing a class to show them
how to _marcelle_ their mops and "straight front" their stomachs. A
tommyhawk f