I reviled my folly.
31st—Street walking is a delight.
I’ll mirror my face in the glass of the shop windows ambling by.
I dropped a handkerchief to-day.
A gentle gentleman—man behind me should be young and good looking always—picked it up. His respectful “Pardon me—” made me feel as if I were living in the silver-armoured age of chivalry.
Shall I drop something again?
I observed a variety of form in raising the skirt.
One lifted a bit of the left by her finger-tips. Another pulled up the right edge of her front. Another clinched out the centre of her back, showing a significant fist. A corpulent one stepped, holding up both sides of her front. The miserable underskirt revealed itself in red.
Which mode is becoming to me?
Jan. 1st, 1900—Is to-day the opening of another century?