My dears, _I_ never lacked beaux at your age. But a walk in the woods, or in the city either, involved no expense to _my_ beaux. I could climb a fence, where there was no gate, or where there _was_ either; I was not afraid of dew, or rain, because my dress was simple. My gifts were not diamonds, but flowers, or books. _My_ mother would not have allowed me to ride with gentlemen, had they asked me. When they came to spend an evening, our tray of refreshments did not involve a "French cook." So you see, my dears, though I had no silk dresses, I had plenty of beaux, and a gay heart; and I enjoyed a sail with an old sun-bonnet over my curls, or a moonlight ramble, with a merry party, much better than you do "the German;" and half an hour was sufficient warning for me "to dress" for any kind of a party--indoors or out--because, unlike you, I was not bothered to choose from twenty dresses which to wear; and I will give you leave to ask any of my beaux, who are now grandfathers, if I was not able at that time to settle _their_ accounts! And it is because I had such a good time that I feel vexed that your youth and prettiness should so often go a-begging--through no fault of yours; and you may show this to your mothers and tell them I say so.
In the country, too, matrons, we have full trunks and absent husbands.
It was a quiet little village; just such a place as you, madam, with your six children, sensibly clad in calico, would like to have enjoyed the sweet summer days in. There was no "dress;" there were no "hops," in hot halls, by gas-light; there were no masquerade balls. Everybody was in bed by ten o'clock, save a few smokers, who profaned the sweet, odorous quiet with their vile tobacco fumes. There was plenty of driving through the bewitching roads, plenty of walking, _some_ gossip,--_which I have ascertained has no sex_--some croquet-ing and crochetting, but no _coquetting_, because there was a great vacuum where beaux should be. Altogether, the city residents of Frog-ville were a sensible set.
But, alas! one unlucky day the shrieking cars landed at the door of the principal boarding-house a woman. That was not an event of itself, but this woman was accompanied by many trunks. Nobody knew whence she came, but conjecture was rife as to the contents of the trunks. Breakfast, next morning, solved the mystery. Mrs. Fire-Fly--for she was a Mrs.--none the less dangerous for that--on the contrary!--swept into the dining-hall in a train about six yards long. The train was white and spotless; the floor was not. The lady carried her coffee to her lips, with diamond girdled fingers, _steadily_, with an eye to her delicate ribbons. Scipio, who handed her beefsteak over her shoulder, had no time to consider such trifles. Little puddles of milk lay in wait on the floor for that spotless train, dexteriously coiled, by its owner, like an anaconda under the table. Pools of milk, tea-drippings, and bits of omelette, dislodged from their moorings, by hot haste in serving, were dotted, here and there, in the path she would soon be called upon to mop on her exit. At _length_ she rose! Her train followed at a respectful distance. The eyes of the dozen or two sensible women, clad in sensible raiment, followed that train. Its dainty owner, with a disdain of economy, born of many trunks, and their ample contents, did not so much as lift it with one of her jeweled fingers. On she swept, through the coffee-pools--through the gravy-drippings--through the milk-puddles, out into the hall.