It seems to me, the more that I gaze at it, that a prude iz nothing more than a coquett gone to seed.
I would rather be a coquett than a prude; thare iz some 356 fun in it—thare is viktory in it; while prudery, at best, iz only a defeat in an inglorious cauze.
Coquetts sumtimes git marrid, but they are az hard to tame az a patridge, and aint worth enny more after they are tamed, besides being a heap more jealous than a mother-in-law to their daughters; while a prude, for a wife, iz but the bluest kind ov a school-marm at home on a furlough.
In conclusion, I would say, in all kindness, to the coquetts, that they seldom hav but one fust-class man in their nets; all that they bag afterward are of the same breed az themselves; and to the prudes I would suggest that wimmin are growing more plenty every year, and that thare are but few ov them, who insist upon it, that will pay the wear and tear ov a humiliating and laborious siege.
FOLKS WE ALL KNO.
THE EFFEMINATE MAN.
The effeminate man is a weak poultiss.
He is a kross between root beer and ginger pop with the cork left out ov the bottle over night.
He is a fresh water mermaid lost in a cow pastur, with his hands filled with dandylions.
He is a tea-kup full of whipped sillybub—a kitten in pantylets—a sick monkey with a blonde mustash.