The Modern Girl and Her Ways by Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Apr 17, 1913

The Modern Girl and Her Ways

By Margaret E. Sangster, Jr.

MARGARET E. SANGSTER, JR.

A LITTLE old lady with faltering steps entered the room while a club meeting was in progress.

“O, it’s only grandmother!” murmured the president of the club, without leaving her place; and as “grandmother” was a stranger to the girls, they went on with their remarks.

That is, all except one tall, plain girl in a business suit. She was on her feet as soon as the little lady entered and did not resume her chair until the grandmother of her hostess was comfortably settled. And all of the very modern and sophisticated girls looked at their friend in surprise and wondered why she was so unnecessarily polite and formal.

But the girl in question thought of it not at all; she did not know that she had done anything unusual. For this girl can often be seen amid the rush and bustle of the city, helping an old man across a crowded street, or giving up her place in a car to a tired-faced mother with shawl and market-basket. She thinks nothing of it, and expects nothing from it; but to her, a smile from a tremulous mouth or a brightened gleam from a pair of fast-fading eyes means more than much fine silver or gold.

This type of girl is fast dying out. She is now as unique as she is refreshing, and all because of the modernism that girls love to boast of. When the maiden aunt who lives in a story-book world tells “what I did,” or “how I acted when I was a girl,” you should not think of her as a fault-finding old woman who tires you, but rather think how she acted when she was your age, and what you would be like if you had her pretty politeness and formal little mannerisms.

I once heard a girl who was popular and well brought up—yes, and even a shining light in society—say to her mother in the presence of some young men:— “Cut it, mama! Do you think that we want to listen to your old-fashioned ideas?”

As the mother was a little deaf, she missed the drift of her daughter’s rude remark; but two young men who heard it never called at the house again, and I heard one say to the other as they gained the street:— “A girl who speaks to her mother like that is not the kind of girl that I care to know!”

Girls who labor under the impression that their friends like the young woman who is a “good fellow”—slangy, rough, and unrefined—are all wrong. For I have heard young men condemn a girl many times for just these things. And, in one way, it was a rather unjust condemnation; for these same girls were sweet and natural when alone with their families, and were only tomboyish from the mistaken idea that they would be more attractive to their social acquaintances.

One of the most popular girls I ever knew was perfect in her manner to older persons. She was tender and loving to her grandparents, and she petted her father and mother as she did her small sisters and brothers. Everybody loved her, from the stern, puritanic village minister to the smallest and crossest baby in town. At last the girl’s engagement to a college chum of her brother’s was announced; and when I met the happy man on the street I stopped to congratulate him. His eyes shone as he shook my hand. “There’s nobody like her!” he said in a fervent tone, “nobody! The first day I met her I knew that she was the Only Girl. And when I saw her wrap a shawl around her grandmother with that quaint little air of taking care of some one; and saw her pat her mother’s hand when she thought they were alone, and kiss the scratch on a dirty baby’s cheek, I knew I was done for, and that I loved her!”

I once went to school with a girl who for a long time was my model in everything. Her hair and dresses were always spick and span, and her smile was always radiant; but her manners were the greatest source of delight to me. There was not a soul in the school who did not like her. Even the grim principal unbent when she was near. Personally, I idolized her, and enthroned her in my dreams. Perhaps this attitude made my awakening a little sharper and a trifle more cruel.

One day I summoned up enough courage to call for her on my way to school. And as I was somewhat early, a flurried maid told me to wait in the hall, as she informed me that “Miss Madeline was not dressed yet.”

I waited, silent, frightened by my presumption, when suddenly from somewhere above me came a call—almost a snarl—in a well-known voice:— “Sister, have you taken my hair-ribbon? Have you? Oh, how I hate you! Say, mother, hurry up there!”

The mother’s patient voice came in answer to the peevish call: “Coming, dear. I’ll help you to dress.” “Can’t you hurry, mother?” screamed my little model. “D’you think I’ve got all day? Don’t put your cold hands on my neck. Haven’t you got any sense?”

A cough behind me brought me to myself, and I saw Madeline’s father standing near. “Don’t mind that noise,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s only my daughter getting ready for school.”

His matter-of-fact manner was the last straw. So this, then, was a common, every-day occurrence!

“I don’t think I’ll wait,” I stammered. “It’s getting late.” And with uncertain steps I reached the street. My dream-bubble had burst; my shining idol was shattered into a thousand fragments.

Girls, never be hypocrites with your manners! Never treat a stranger better than you would your own mother; never fail in courtesy where your own family is concerned. For if you do, even though you gain a little cheap approbation, you will be found out.

In the large, beautifully furnished reception-room of a Young Women’s Christian Association building, there hangs on the wall an illuminated card. Stepping up to it, this is what one may read: “Courtesy is like an air-cushion; there may be nothing in it, but it eases the jolts a lot.”

Try to live up to that homely little text. It is best to be natural always. Cultivate a courteous manner in your home and it will come as a matter of course before strangers.—Christian Herald.