OLD granny sits serene and knits and talks of bygone ages, when she was
young; and from her tongue there comes the truth of sages. “In vanished
years,” she says, “my dears, the girls were nice and modest, and they
were shy, and didn’t try to see whose wit was broadest. In cushioned
nooks they read their books, and loved the poets’ lilting; with eager
paws they helped their mas at cooking and at quilting. The maidens then
would shy at men and keep them at a distance, and each new sport who
came to court was sure to meet resistance. The girls were flowers that
bloomed in bowers remote from worldly clamor, and when I view the modern
crew they give me katzenjammer. The girls were sweet and trim and neat,
as fair as hothouse lilies, and when I scan the modern clan I surely
have the willies. Refinement fades when modern maids come forth in all
their glory; their hats are freaks, their costume shrieks, their nerve
is hunkydory. They waste the night and in daylight they’re doctoring and
drugging; when they don’t go to picture show, they’re busy
bunny-hugging.” Then granny takes her pipe and breaks some plug tobacco
in it, and smokes and smokes till mother chokes and runs out doors a
minute.
[Illustration]
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