The Gravity of Force.

Brother, when you see a crimsoncorpuscled, three-ply, double-yolked, wire-woven, cable-edged, two-hundred per cent, he-male, ornamented with oriel jaw and sporting an optic calculated to infect a python with a Dunlop complex, rise up in the banqueting hall and libel the ladies “the weaker sex,” you know full well, that he either is well “full” or is emulating the ostrich. He is ignoring the gravity of force, and casting calumny on the athletic Amazon, the tennis-terror, the spinster-sprinter, the demon-dancer, and the lady-bird, who have made the world fit for feminism. For the nonce, he has overlooked the muscular maidens of his own marital menage, in whose hands he is potter's clay and Fuller's Earth.

Brother, the bitter truth is that we have been buncoed from birth, and this “emancipation of woman” talky is but final proof of woman's ability to screw the scrum, work the blind side of man, and present him with the dummy, ad lib, in toto, and in the neck.

For the minutes of the meeting disclose that Woman was fully and finally emancipated five seconds after Eve made a rib-stone pippin of Adam while he slept on the job; for a while she concealed her fire-arms and relied on fainting and feinting to lead man to lower his guard, while she slipped over sundry sly wallops on his wide open spaces, to the secret delight and profit of her sex; but now she has come openly into the market-place, has proclaimed herself the queen-bee and has stung man on his superiority complex.

There remain certain mutinous males, how-ever, who, with their backs to the mantelpiece, still defend the fallacious fabrication of male domiuation.