BUBBLE AND SQUEAK.
Just received a book for review, an author’s complimentary copy, from one of my friends, one of the finest hearted, most beautiful natured men in the world. This is one of the saddest ironies of life. It is just such a book as I wish my enemy had written.
The New Woman, who is really new and not a mere simulacrum of the old fetish masquerading in borrowed plumage, carries a copy of the Fly Leaf in the pocket of her bloomers; for the editor of the Fly Leaf is a New Woman’s man, and distinctly prefers her to her grandmother.
This is worth the attention of young people just graduating from our schools and colleges and entering upon the sad and serious business of life, as it will put them in the path of success quicker than all the wisdom of Aristotle and Plato—and I say this, who spawned it. One can break all the ten commandments upon a technicality.
A wink is much more innocent than a blush.
One of the tragedies of old fogyism is the wit and wisdom of youth. But youth has its little ironies, and the longevity of old fogeyism is one of them.