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St. Louis Post-Dispatch, Missouri, July 14, 1895

Don’t be a fright.

Don’t stop at road-houses.

Don’t say “Feel my muscle.”

Don’t cultivate “bicycle face.”

Don’t talk bicycle at the table.

Don’t go out after dark without a male escort.

Don’t chew gum. Exercise your jaws in private.

Don’t wear a garden-party hat with bloomers.

Don’t ask “what do you think of my bloomers?”

Don’t use bicycle slang. Leave that to the boys.

Don’t discuss bloomers with every man you know.

Don’t try to ride in your brother’s clothes to “see how it feels.”

Don’t ride a man’s wheel. The time has not come for that as yet.

Don’t carry a packet of cigarettes in the pocket of your pantalets.

Don’t sneer at the lawn tennis girl, or maybe she will not ask you to be a bridesmaid. 

Don’t scream loudly because you see a strange man in the field  – it may be a scarecrow.

Don’t lift up your skirts suddenly to astonish people by showing them your bloomers.

The Akron Beacon Journal, Ohio, February 14, 1922

I know how goes the quaint galosh,
The co-ed’s – they go squishety-squosh;
There ain’t a soul can make her stop
From lettin’ ‘em go k’flop, k’flop!

But now I’m on the avenoo,
Where flappers pass in smart revoo;
Their antics don’t go squosh, no chap –
They’re flappers – they go flap, flap, flap!

Let ‘em squosh. Let ‘em flap. Let ‘em play advanced auction, flick a wicked cigaret ash, eat fudge, flaunt permanent waves, and say an occasional dammit! 

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