One Illusion Is As Good As Another.

Women, Despite The Fact That Nine Out Of Ten Of Them Go Through Life With A Death-bed Air Either Of Snatching-the-last-moment Or With Martyr-resignation, Do Not Die Tomorrow--or The Next Day. They Have To Live On To Any One Of Many Bitter Ends.

It Seemed To Alabama That, Reaching Her Goal, She Would Drive The Devils That Had Driven Her - That, In Proving Herself, She Would Achieve That Peace Which She Imagined Went Only In Surety Of One’s Self - That She Would Be Able, Through The Medium Of The Dance, To Command Her Emotions, To Summon Love Or Pity Or Happiness At Will, Having Provided A Channel Through Which They Might Flow. She Drove Herself Mercilessly, And The Summer Dragged On.

A Southern Moon Is A Sodden Moon, And Sultry. When It Swamps The Fields And The Rustling Sandy Roads And The Sticky Honeysuckle Hedges In Its Sweet Stagnation, Your Fight To Hold On To Reality Is Like A Protestation Against A First Waft Of Ether.

By The Time A Person Has Achieved Years Adequate For Choosing A Direction, The Die Is Cast And The Moment Has Long Since Passed Which Determined The Future.

The Flapper Awoke From Her Lethargy Of Sub-deb-ism, Bobbed Her Hair, Put On Her Choicest Pair Of Earrings And A Great Deal Of Audacity And Rouge And Went Into The Battle. She Flirted Because It Was Fun To Flirt And Wore A One-piece Bathing Suit Because She Had A Good Figure She Was Conscious That The Things She Did Were The Things She Had Always Wanted To Do. Mothers Disapproved Of Their Sons Taking The Flapper To Dances, To Teas, To Swim And Most Of All To Heart.