exercise as anything yet discovered. But
walking as most girls and women walk won't do you one bit of good. You
might just as well spend your time trying to count 700 backward or
while away the hours talking 1880 fashions with the woman next door,
for all the health or happiness or physical development that you will
get out of it.

Corsets and bands and belts must be done away with. You must have full,
free use of your lungs. Then, don't wear heavy petti-coats that will
retard the free movements of your legs and make your hips ache with
their tiresome weight. Dress warmly but as lightly as possible.

Above everything else don't stick your fingertips into a muff and
waddle along like a little duck in sealskin and purple velvet
trimmings. Your arms must swing easily at your sides. Thus equipped
walking should not be a task, but a great, big, lovely joy, no matter
if the frost does nip your nice little nose and make your cheeks feel
as if they had been starched, dried, ironed and hung on the line to
air.

English women who come to America can tell us a thing or two about long
walks. Only the other day a pretty Englishwoman with a complexion like
apple blossoms casually divulged the information that a walk of ten or
fifteen miles was an old, old story to her. So, when I say that three
miles a day--the three miles ought really to be covered inside an
hour--is not a bit too much to give one's muscles the necessary
exercise, I hope you won't lean back in your chair and gracefully
expire. Some of you will gasp, no doubt, for a walk of five blocks to a
suburban station is usually looked upon as a heroic martyrdom to
circumstances and environments.

Alas, for woman's fickleness! And alas, for her playful habit of going
to extremes! Suppose, for instance, that Polly Jones says she is going
to take a nice long walk every day of her life; that she knows the
bountiful blessings and benefits of a brisk tramp, and that she will
take that tramp in spite of obstacles as big as the Auditorium or as
immense as her longing for a cherry-colored silk petticoat.

The first day--and, mind you, she has not walked a mile for weeks, the
lazy girl--she covers five miles in an hour and ten minutes.

And when she comes home she's such a wreck that the whole family is up
in arms in a jiffy, and whisk out the tomahawks ready for war. That's
the end of Polly Jones' pedestrian exercises.

And Daisy Brown. She does quite the same thing, only not