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dropped in to pay us a visit.

It is one of the chief charms of the summer, to my mind, the way our



little maids come out in pretty colors. I like to see the pink and

blue and white glancing between the trees, dotting the green fields,



and flashing back the sunlight. You can see the bright colors such a

long way off. There are four white dresses climbing a hill in front



of my window now. I can see them distinctly, though it is three miles

away. I thought at first they were mile-stones out for a lark. It's



so nice to be able to see the darlings a long way off. Especially if

they happen to be your wife and your mother-in-law.



Talking of fields and mile-stones reminds me that I want to say, in

all seriousness, a few words about women's boots. The women of these



islands all wear boots too big for them. They can never get a boot to

fit. The bootmakers do not keep sizes small enough.



Over and over again have I known women sit down on the top rail of a

stile and declare they could not go a step further because their boots



hurt them so; and it has always been the same complaint--too big.

It is time this state of things was altered. In the name of the



husbands and fathers of England, I call upon the bootmakers to reform.

Our wives, our daughters, and our cousins are not to be lamed and



tortured with impunity. Why cannot "narrow twos" be kept more in

stock? That is the size I find most women take.



The waist-band is another item of feminineapparel that is always too

big. The dressmakers make these things so loose that the hooks and



eyes by which they are fastened burst off, every now and then, with a

report like thunder.



Why women suffer these wrongs--why they do not insist in having their

clothes made small enough for them I cannot conceive. It can hardly



be that they are disinclined to trouble themselves about matters of

mere dress, for dress is the one subject that they really do think



about. It is the only topic they ever get thoroughly interested in,

and they talk about it all day long. If you see two women together,



you may bet your bottom dollar they are discussing their own or their

friends' clothes. You notice a couple of child-like beings conversing



by a window, and you wonder what sweet, helpful words are falling from

their sainted lips. So you move nearer and then you hear one say:



"So I took in the waist-band and let out a seam, and it fits

beautifully now."



"Well," says the other, "I shall wear my plum-colored body to the

Jones', with a yellow plastron; and they've got some lovely gloves at



Puttick's, only one and eleven pence."

I went for a drive through a part of Derbyshire once with a couple of



ladies. It was a beautiful bit of country, and they enjoyed

themselves immensely. They talked dressmaking the whole time.



"Pretty view, that," I would say, waving my umbrella round. "Look at

those blue distant hills! That little white speck, nestling in the



woods, is Chatsworth, and over there--"

"Yes, very pretty indeed," one would reply. "Well, why not get a yard



of sarsenet?"

"What, and leave the skirt exactly as it is?"



"Certainly. What place d'ye call this?"

Then I would draw their attention to the fresh beauties that kept



sweeping into view, and they would glance round and say "charming,"

"sweetly pretty," and immediately go off into raptures over each



other's pocket-handkerchiefs, and mourn with one another over the

decadence of cambric frilling.



I believe if two women were cast together upon a desert island, they

would spend each day arguing the respective merits of sea-shells and



birds' eggs considered as trimmings, and would have a new fashion in

fig-leaves every month.



Very young men think a good deal about clothes, but they don't talk

about them to each other. They would not find much encouragement. A



fop is not a favorite with his own sex. Indeed, he gets a good deal

more abuse from them than is necessary. His is a harmless failing and



it soon wears out. Besides, a man who has no foppery at twenty will

be a slatternly, dirty-collar, unbrushed-coat man at forty. A little



foppishness in a young man is good; it is human. I like to see a

young cock ruffle his feathers, stretch his neck, and crow as if the



whole world belonged to him. I don't like a modest, retiring man.

Nobody does--not really, however much they may prate about modest



worth and other things they do not understand.

A meek deportment is a great mistake in the world. Uriah Heap's



father was a very poor judge of human nature, or he would not have




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