MORAL: _Of all Sad Words of Tongue or Pen, the Saddest are these, "It
Might Have Been."_
_THE_ FABLE _OF_ WHAT HAPPENED _THE_ NIGHT THE MEN CAME _TO THE_ WOMEN'S
CLUB
In a Progressive Little City claiming about twice the Population that
the Census Enumerators could uncover, there was a Literary Club. It was
one of these Clubs guaranteed to fix you out with Culture while you
wait. Two or three Matrons, who were too Heavy for Light Amusements, but
not old enough to remain at Home and Knit, organized the Club. Nearly
every Woman in town rushed to get in, for fear somebody would say she
hadn't been Asked.
The Club used to Round Up once a week at the Homes of Members. There
would be a Paper, followed by a Discussion, after which somebody would
Pour.
The Organization seemed to be a Winner. One Thing the Lady Clubbers were
Dead Set On. They were going to have Harmony with an Upper Case H. They
were out to cut a seven-foot Swath through English Literature from
Beowulf to Bangs, inclusive, and no petty Jealousies or Bickerings would
stand in the Way.
So while they were at the Club they would pull Kittenish Smiles at each
other, and Applaud so as not to split the Gloves.
Pages:
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43