Beaux, bucks, lady-killers, Johnnies,—­all these terms have been applied at different periods to the self-proclaimed fascinator of women, and to-day we will use some one, any of them, rather than that abomination,—­masher.  Nor am I “puttin’ on scallops and frills,” as the boys say.  I know a good thing when I hear it, as when a very much overdressed woman entered a car, and its first sudden jerk broke her gorgeous parasol, while its second flung her into the arms of the ugliest, fattest man present and whirled her pocket-book out of the window, I knew that the voice of conviction that slowly said, “Well, she is up against it,” slangily expressed the unfortunate woman’s exact predicament.  Oh, no, I’m not “puttin’ on frills,” I am only objecting with all my might and main to a term, as well as to the contemptible creature indicated by it,—­masher.

In a certain school, long ago, there was a very gentle, tender-hearted teacher, who was also the comforter and peacemaker of her flock.  Whenever there was trouble at recess, and some one pushed or some one else had their gathers torn out, or, in actual war, names were called, and “mean thing” and “tattle-tale” brought sobbing little maids to the teacher’s arms, or when loss and disaster in the way of missing blocks of rubber, broken slate pencils, or ink-stained reader covers sent floods of tears down small faces, this teacher always came to the rescue and soothed and patted and invariably wound up with these exact words, “There, there, don’t let us say anything more about it, and then we’ll all be quite happy.”  I am sure we all thought that it was the eleventh commandment, “Not to say anything more about it.”

Now every one of us suffered more or less from our encounters with the multiplication table.  Of course fives and tens were at a premium—­even very stupid little girls could get through them, and twos were not so bad, but the rest of the tables were tear-washed daily. Sevens were, however, my own especial nightmare—­even to this day my fingers instinctively begin to move when I multiply any figure by seven.  Standing in class on the platform, the sevens one day fell to me.  Being charged to put my hands before me, that I should not by chance forget and count by their aid, I staggered and reeled through the table so far as seven times seven, when, moistening my lips, I hoarsely whispered, “Forty-nine,” and the shock of finding the answer correct destroyed me utterly.  Seven times eight was anything they liked in figures, and so I recklessly cried out, “Oh, sixty-two, I guess,” and burst into tears.  Recess came, and I would not move from my desk; and then the teacher dried my tears on her own cool, sweet handkerchief, and was comforting me as best she could, when suddenly I stole her thunder by pressing my damp cheek to hers and saying eagerly, “Don’t let us say anything more about the sevens, Miss Sands, and then we’ll all be quite happy.”