Lazy Thoughts of a Lazy Girl | Page 9

body."
Then up rose the ruling councillor, and called us all to pass a vote of
thanks to the "gifted orator." Someone seconded it, and the great man
came forward again to thank us for thanking him. A sort of "So glad,
I'm glad, you're glad" business, it seemed to me.
Then the ladies were thanked for being present: "Such great aids, and
such an important element in the League," with a snigger, and what he
confidently hoped was a fascinating smile, but which made him
resemble a very placid cow with the corners of its mouth turned up.
Such a mouth, too! The poor man could have whispered in his own ear
had he wished. Then someone returned thanks for the ladies. The ruling
councillor was thanked, and thanked his thankers back again, and after
a few more people had exhibited their great faculty for gratitude the
meeting broke up--the only moment at which I felt inclined to applaud.
I do not wish to disparage my own "side" by the foregoing remarks, not
caring in any way to emulate Balaam. It is not only the members of the
Primrose League who are so anxious to praise each other. It is the case
at nearly every meeting you go to. It is a weakness of human nature.
We know that if we laud our friend he will sing an eulogy on us the
next minute, so it is only natural we should do it, after all.
"The fault is not in our stars, But in ourselves, that we are underlings."
CHAPTER IV.
ON AFTERNOON TEA.
"The Muses' friend, Tea, does our fancy aid, Repress the vapors which
the head invade, And keeps the palace of the soul serene."
How I do love tea! I don't deny it, it is as necessary to me as smoking is
to men.
I have heard a lady accused by her doctor of being a "tea-drunkard"!
"Tea picks you up for a little time," he said, "and you feel a great deal

better after you have had a cup. But it is a stimulant, the effect of which
does not last very long, and all the while it is ruining your nerves and
constitution. I daresay it is difficult to give up--the poor man finds the
same with his spirits. You are no better than he!"
It is rather a come down, is it not? Somehow, when you are drinking
tea, you feel so very temperate. Well, at least, the above reflection
makes you sympathize with the inebriates, if it does nothing else; and I
am afraid it does nothing else with me. In spite of the warning, I
continue to take my favorite beverage as strong and as frequently as
ever, and so I suppose must look forward to a cranky nervous old age.
It is curious to notice how men are invading our precincts now-a-days.
They used to scoff at such a meal as afternoon tea, and now most of
them take it as regularly as they stream out of the trains on Saturday
afternoons with pink papers under their arms--such elevating literature!
Indeed there is quite a fuss if they have to go without it--the tea I mean,
not the paper.
It is strange too, because they dislike it so, if we trespass on their
preserves, _e.g._, their outcry on ladies smoking: which is exceedingly
unfair, for we have no equivalent for the fragrant weed. Still I agree
with the men in a way, for nothing looks worse than a girl smoking in
public, though a cigarette now and then with a brother does, I think, no
harm, provided it does not grow into a habit.
My brother once gave me a cigarette and bet me a shilling that I would
not smoke it through. It was so hard that if I had bent it, it would have
snapped in two. He had only just found it in a corner of a cupboard
where it had lain for years and years. But oh, the strength of that
cigarette! It took me hours to get through, for it would not draw a bit.
Nevertheless, with the incentive of a shilling to urge me on, I continued
"faint but pursuing" and eventually won the bet. I would not do it again
for ten times the amount.
But I should be talking about tea, not smoking; and tea has other
baneful influences besides destroying the digestion. I think that
afternoon tea is the time that breeds more gossip and scandal than any

other hour in the day.
As Young exclaims:--
"Tea! How I tremble at thy fatal stream! As Lethe dreadful to the love
of fame. What devastations on thy bank are seen, What shades of
mighty names that once have been! A hecatomb of characters supplies