THE ROMANTIC OLD DAYS It must have been terribly difficult getting around in the days before automobiles were invented, or railroads or anything like that. Though, of course, it was wonderfully romantic, too. The old coaching days, particularly, when everybody blew on horns as they drove from town to town, and there were highwaymen and cavaliers with swords and all those people, you know, riding by the coaches. Don't you just DOTE on romance? I do! But, of course, there's no place for it in our hurried modern life, and I suppose we shouldn't regret it. But now and then I sigh over it. Like dropping a tear, you know, in a dear old chest perfumed with lavender and old roses. I always say that one can be advanced and in the van of modern progress, and still drop a tear, you know. Do you think that all this study of sex hygiene means the death of romance? It's a serious thought, isn't it? But what I always say is: "Which of these things will do the most GOOD in the world?" Especially good to the POOR! You know how frightfully interested I am in the poor. I make that my test. I always say to myself: "Which will do the most good to the great masses?" I take such a serious interest in the MASSES! We should think twice before we take romance out of their lives and replace it with science of any kind. For, after all, you know, they represent the Future. We should all think of the Future. That's what makes the Feminist Movement such a WONDERFUL thing -- it is moving right straight ahead toward the Future! I'm thinking of being a Suffragist again. I was once, you know, but I resigned. The sashes and banners are such a frightful shade of yellow, you know. So I quit. Beauty, after all, is the chief thing. What, after all, do all our reforms come to, if the world is not to be made more beautiful because of them? And I simply CANNOT wear yellow. HERMIONE'S BOSWELL EXPLAINS Believe me, 'tis not with elation I dwell on Hermione's madness; The result of my rapt contemplation Is sadness, a terrible sadness! I weep when I note how she drivels; I sigh o'er her fake philanthropies; I am pained when I see how she frivols, Like a kitten, with serious topics. It is grief that her mental condition Inspires, not laughter or scorning; If she has any use, 'til her Mission To stand as a Horrible Warning. I am moral, essentially moral; I am grave, and hate everything trashy, And that is the reason I quarrel With intellects flighty and flashy. I yearn for the truth, I am earnest; I yearn to face facts without blinking, Of all of my years, quite the yearnest Is my yearn to be thorough in thinking. That's why I'm severe with this darling, Nor pardon nor whitewash nor gloss her, -- The linnet -- the parrot -- the starling! I weep over her and expose her. SYMBOLS AND DEW-HOPPING