Americus times-recorder., 1919-12-18


want to float up into the air far, far
above the clguds and maybe hem
lace petticoats for the angels. Or
you could be extraordinarily happy
as a poet, writing verse to some
handsome youth who receives a prize
for winning in a yacht race.
Maybe you even have fathom-
less desire to be packing your trunk
for some long and indefinite trip
that will take you to the harbor at
New York and then across on the
billowy ocean, where you will pa
rade the deck of your huge ocean
liner arm in arm with an English
man who has a small moustache and
a cane. You'd have a big dog with
you, with honest eyes and long
tail that would wag kindly only for
those who were kind to you. And
you'd never think of coming home
until you'd seen the Pyramids and
landed at Calcutta and been to Aus
trala and South America and
Alaska. Of course you are fully
aware you can't do any one of these
things, and you're stamping your
foot in veritable vexation when
Florence Purdy arrives to make an
early morning call.
"Yolande, l want you to look at
my waist. I made it all myself"
she says.
And will you believe me, there she
is in a new linen waist as near like
the one l told her I had bought the
pattern for and was making for my
self when l had the time to sew, as
waist could be.
She's the biggest copycat that ever
lived. You can't drop the tiniest
little item of what you intend to do
in the way of clothes, that she doesn't
hurry home and make something as
near your description as she possibly
can. She's a good seamstress and
has such oceans of time (because no
one ever asks her anywhere) that
she finishes everything much in ad
vance of me. But to think of her
having the nerve to confront me
with this waist and show it as if she
thought I wouldn't recognize her per-
fidy!
Now, Emmy Cunningham wouldn't
do thing like that, not if she were
presented with a hundred exclusive
models of mine to initiate.
ooh, it's rather NICE" ! drawled.
at reminds me strangely of the one
I told you was making for myself,
if you recall. By the way, I tried
mine on and it made me look so
much like an old maid, that I gave
It to Sarah"
I was twilly-wagging in cold blood.
"Gave it to Sarahw repeated
Florence, so crestfallen that I felt
4 ray of compunction somewhere
within me. Even so, I continued:
eyes, gave it to Sarah. I hope
(Oh so sweetly) you and she won't
have them on the same evenings"
Florence was awfully quiet after
his. She can't rebound very quick
"; it isn't in her. l had hit the real
blow, you see A girl who hasn't |
any beaux is a perfect fraidy-cat
about being an old maid. Mamma
aid I was horribly mean when later
It the dinner table, l repeated what
had happened Her very words, for
they scorched little, were:
"Chord of my Heart Strings, you
shouldn't say such things to Flor
ence. You're so much prettier and
50 much better beloved than she is,
that you can afford to be very gener-
GUS"
Mamma is such a dear. If l ever
develop my character half so Won
.derfully as she has hers, won't seem
at all like Yolande. So | don't try,
at least, not always.
I forgot to say, Mamma decided I
must give the waist to Sarah, and
what's more, I must finish it before
l do so, and as neatly as if it were
for myself. Dear, oh dear, the path
of the wicked is not paved in as
phalt.
But what l began to relate, I'm
wandering miles from: While Flor
ence was sitting on the porch, Roy
arrived. He sauntered in with his
barred cap on and looking up into
the air as if he were trying to catch
- U,rira1ncr -