Mr. Rudyard Kipling once said some thing very clever about "the female of the species" and he has been quoted with exasperating reiteration. Yet there are times when the phrase his cynical genius coined is the only remark adequate to the situation. It must have been on many men's lips during the past week's whirl at the D. A. R. Convention in Washington.

There were "feline amenities" in plenty among what the Capital papers term "our DARling DARters". Mrs. Snodgrass, Mrs. Winkle and Miss Tupman, each with a "ticket" all her own, fought with stubborn bitterness for the President-Generalship. The "most aristocratic ladies in the country" argued and expostulated for long hours on their relative merits adjourned to drink innumerable cups of tea, and returned to cast their ballots and lose their dignity. When feelings ran high Miss Tupman suddenly withdrew to throw her weight-hardly a lady-like performance-to Mrs. Snodgrass, and pandemonium broke loose.

The scene on the eventful night of the election resembled nothing so much as a good old London bargain sale. In swaying, hysterical lines the remnants of their tempers until nerves sustained by peppermints and Pomeranians could stand it no longer. The line cracked and broke and in a few seconds the splendid hall seethed like hell's own kitchen. The few police were power-less-what could mere men do? More were hurried to the spot without effect, until finally firemen were appealed to to quiet burning Scotland, and with a double cordon of the sterner sex-firmly established, the election continued to its end when, as in a recent Mexican affair, "not much blooded was reported."

And all this was on a question of pure personalities. There were no live issues, there were no defined policies, The Convention seemed to be nothing but a chance for pseudo-business women, with nothing to do, to get together for a good big yammer. Nor have they accomplished anything, unless the further discrediting of women in politics can be called an accomplishment.

National conventions are often ridiculous enough, but at least men are sufficiently conscious of the absurdities to cloak the personalities in some pretense of policies. At least too, they have a definite purpose-and they don't have tea.