The answer is, that just as a persistent bend of thought modifies and in time fixes the expression of the face, so a habitual expression (or lack of expression) of face influences the bend of thought and, in time, fixes the character. If you don’t believe this, dear girl, stand before your looking-glass and smirk at yourself as hard as you can, until you look (as much as it is possible for a human girl to look) like a magazine-cover Peach. Then try to hold the “Peach” look while you recite: _The stars of midnight shall be dear_ _To her; and she shall lean her ear_ _In many a secret place_ _Where rivulets dance their wayward round_ _And beauty born of murmuring sound_ _Shall pass into her face._ You see it’s impossible! You can’t do it, any more than you can stroke your head up and down at the same time as you stroke your chest sideways. Your mouth has come out of curl—the foolish light has gone out of your eyes. Perhaps (if you really feel what you were reciting) you look just the least bit solemn. If so, try to hold the solemn look while you recite the following by a popular song writer: _Call me pet names dearest—_ _Call me a bird_ _That flies to my breast_ _At one cherishing word,_ _That folds its wild wings there_ _Ne’er dreaming of flight,_ _That tenderly sings there in loving delight._ _Oh my sad heart keeps pining_ _For one fond word,_ _Call me pet names dearest,_ _Call me a bird!_ By the time you have finished, your solemn reflection in the glass will have changed to something almost as idiotic as the “peach” on the magazine cover. Without question, the vulgar standards of expression these simpering sirens are setting for the impressionable young girl of today will degrade her just as surely as the wholesome, high-bred type of womanhood evolved by Charles Dana Gibson improved and developed all that was best in her sister of twenty years ago. * * * * * The theory that nature imitates art is much older than Oscar Wilde, who (owing to the carelessness of Mr. Whistler) is supposed to have originated it. It is so old that Mr. G. K. Chesterton any moment may rise to dispute it, and announce to an astonished London that it is Art that imitates Nature; nevertheless, Nature _does_ imitate Art. Is it possible that there is method in all this magazine madness? Is it possible that these magazines being devoted (among other devotions) to ladies’ attire, fear that too great an improvement in the female of our species would divert her thoughts from the imbecilities of dress to higher—and less profitable—things? Allah forbid! [Illustration] SECOND CHILDHOOD’S HAPPY HOUR