"TIME brings all things"
In Deauville a slender woman appeared on the beach in a bathing-suit of green-stitched ostrich plumes, tossed from her shoulders a corresponding peignoir, plunged into the surge. In a moment she emerged, her costume as bold as ever. The feathers, put together with a new waterproofing process, shed water like a duck's back.
"Always remember mamma telling you that the most expensive corsets are the cheapest in the end ... ."
Thus women of dead decades admonished their maturing daughters. In due course the daughters, in spite of the inconvenient and often painful constriction of their middle parts by rigid cases, grew up and produced their kind. After marriage and until death they continued to lace. They laced up the front and down the back and along the side; they armored themselves with elastic and steel and whalebone, long, short, and medium, constructed in a thousand exacerbating shapes. Some of these women still survive. They continue to demand corsets that lace. They constitute, however, only 15% of the U. S. corset buyers, the Bureau of the Census made clear last week, reporting a banner year (1925) for the corset and brassiere trade. The daughters of the lacing women have trifled with their mothers' advice; they purchase only the vaguest and least expensive corsets, girdles, slip-ons. There are 166 corset and brassiere manufacturers in the U. S.—one less than in 1914.
They played it on the Corso, in the Bois de Boulogne, among the busses of Trafalgar Square—the game of Beaver. One walked with a companion; one saw a bearded man; one shouted "Beaver," scoring a point for every beard. Game score, as in Fives, was 21. The vogue of Beaver passed two years ago, but recently, on Long Island, a similar pastime started—the game of Babbitt. One drives the highroad, keeping a sharp eye out for Babbitts.* When a Babbitt is sighted, one points a finger at him, shouting "Babbitt." Babbitts travel together, and frequently whole games can be scored from a single car. Score is kept as in tennis— fifteen, thirty, forty, game.
Elks
"Boom" went the drums, the horns brayed, the feet shuffled, the crowd clapped, "Boom, Boom, BOOM. . . ." To the music of many bands, with 100 floats, drill teams, drum corps, 100,000 Elks paraded through the streets of Chicago. Every one of them was smiling. Every one of them had on his badge. They were partaking in the big parade that marked the third day of their 62nd National Convention, held last week.
Already they had dedicated their splendid Memorial Temple on Lake View Avenue to the patriotism of the 70,000 Elks who served the U. S. in the War. Tears had gushed from thousands of eyes as the orator of the day, Rush L. Holland, recited his great address: "On this spot now made sacred . . . this imposing dome . . . the poppy fields of France. . . ." They had frolicked, shot clay pigeons, watched horses run, started a balloon race for an Elk trophy, elected Charles Grakelow of Philadelphia the new Grand Exalted Ruler. Other officers were loyal Elks from: Montgomery, Ala.; Blackfoot, Idaho; Dubuque, Iowa; Woburn, Mass.; and Mexico, Mo. Cincinnati was chosen the next reunion city. They had read their report, 400 pages long,