ABSTRACT
Manifold as the tints of autumn leaves when the sorrowful colours of decay glide over the freshness of spring and the glories of summer — manifold as the tints of autumn leaves are the sufferings of women, and lightly as the cold breeze ruffles the blighted beauty of the year, heedlessly and unconsciously as it passes on, does man hold the even tenor of his selfish way after he has wrecked the happiness of the gentlest fairest being that creation holds within its varied orb.
