Hazel Hart

Draw back your skirts, oh maiden pure and fair, lest they perchance may touch her garments as she passes. Shun her as you would a vile reptile or a fell disease that pollutes the air. Give her no word or look that would bespeak the sympathy of humanity. Put forth a willing hand to clasp His, the hand that led her to destruction and disgrace. Shower upon him the smiles, the same tender graces and the same love that she saw fit to honor him with. Pass her, oh maiden, with a pure proud face, if she puts out a poor polluted palm. Ignore in silent contempt the piteous specimen of womanhood as she passes, beseeching one little token of womanly recognition. But, lay your hand in his on bridal day, the man who brought her there, and swear to cling to him. Stone the woman; let the man go free?