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A Spring Chicken
Squab? No. Broiler? No. Those terms were all right when applied to any other Jane under twenty years of age, but she was the only one of her kind, The Spring Chicken, and because she was the sweetest, cutest, most distracting of her sex she could wipe her little boots on any male citizen south of Broadway and Forty-Second. You know the play, or, if you don't you ought to. Here it is in three reels of comedy, with Gertrude Bambrick, those Morris boys and a galaxy of pretty girls, all raising Ned.
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