AT A MAN MAY NOT.
XLIV. THANKING GOD FOR A GOOD HUSBAND.
XLV. JUST A LITTLE TIRED!
XLVI. PAINTING THE OLD HOMESTEAD.
XLVII. THE OLD SITTING-ROOM STOVE.
XLVIII. A TALK ABOUT DIVORCE.
XLIX. GONE BACK TO FLIPPITY-FLOPPITY SKIRTS.
L. I SHALL MEET HIM SOME DAY.
LI. A MANNISH WOMAN.
LII. THE ONLY WAY TO CONQUER A HARD DESTINY.
LIII. THE "SMART" PERSON.
LIV. A PRETTY STREET INCIDENT.
LV. POLICY A DAMASCUS BLADE, NOT A CLUB.
LVI. THE CONSTANT YEARS BRING AGE TO ALL.
LVII. DID YOU EVER READ THE "LITTLE PILGRIM."
LVIII. EATING MILK TOAST WITH A SPOON!
LIX. BOYS, YOU KNOW I LIKE YOU.
LX. WHAT TO DO WITH GROWLERS.
LXI. GOD BLESS 'EM!
LXII. "UNTO ONE OF THE LEAST OF THESE."
LXIII. TAKING INVENTORY.
LXIV. DON'T MARRY HIM TO SAVE HIM.

A STRING OF BEADS

I.

"I DIDN'T THINK."

"I didn't think!" A woman flings the whiteness of her reputation in
the dust, and, waking to the realization of her loss when the cruel
glare of the world's disapproval reveals it, she seeks to plead her
thoughtlessness as an entreaty of the world's pardon. But the
flint-hearted world is slow to grant it, if she be a woman. "You have
thrown your rose in the dust, go live there with it," the world cries,
and there is no appeal, although the dust become the grave of all that
is bright and lovely and sweet in a thoughtless woman's really innocent
life. A young girl flirts with a stranger on the street. The result
is something disagreeable, and straight-way comes the excuse: "Why, I
didn't think! I meant no harm; I just wanted to have a little fun."
Now, look me straight in the eye, young gossamer-head, while I tell you
what I _know_. The girl who will flirt with strange men in public
places, however harmless and innocent it may appear, places herself in
that man's estimation upon a level with the most abandoned of her sex
and courts the same regard. Strong language, perhaps you think, but I
tell you it is gospel truth, and I feel like going into orders and
preaching from a pulpit whenever I see a thoughtless, gay and giddy
girl tiptoeing her way upon the road that leads direct to destruction.
The boat that dances like a feather on the current a mile above
Niagara's plunge is just as much lost as when it enters the swirling,
swinging wrath of waters, unless some strong hand head it up stream and
out of danger. A flirtatio