(LEAP YEAR: NEW STYLE.)
(From Miss Anastasia Jay, New York, to Thomas, Earl of Dunbrowne, London.)
Valentines plebeian
Cannot fix an Earl—
I'm as you may see, an
Ardent Yankee girl.
Nothing "soft" you'll find here,
No old-fashioned lay;
Say then, you'll be mine, dear,
In the modern way.
You (we haven't met as
Yet I must record)
Figure in Debrett as
Out-and-out a Lord:
Ancestors, a thousand,
Dignities, a score—
Hear my bashful vows, and
Think this matter o'er.
I don't in for Pa go;
Pa despised New York;
Porpa in Chicago
Cultivated pork:
Ma was born a Gerald;
Birth was Morma's pride—
As the New York Herald
Mentioned when she died.
Well, my pile's a million,
That's a fact, you bet:
I'm in our cotillon
Quite the Broadway Pet:
I can sing like PATTI;
And to win I went
For the Cincinnati
Tennis Tournament.
I've a lovely right hand;
For my face I've sat
By electric light—and
Elegant at that!
I enclose the photo,
Just for you to see,
But deny in toto
That it flatters me.
You, I've read, are rather
"Up the Spout" for cash,
Owing to your father
Having been so splash:
I from debt could free you,
And in Politics
Calculate to see you
Bagging all the tricks.
Any Earl who marries
ANASTASIA JAY
Will (except in Paris)
Get his little way,
Fear no interference;
Relatives remain,—
But their disappearance
Beats me to explain.
THOMAS, I adore thee!—
"THOMAS" is thy name,
Isn't it?—the more the
Scandal and the shame!
All I ask you, TOM, is
Just one loving line,
One type-written promise
Publishing you mine.
Matrimony's heart is
Houselike, "half-detached,"
Seldom save at parties
Or in papers matched—
Answer "Yes," or break'll
This poor heart of mine.
Be my Fin-de-Siècle,
Be my Valentine!
QUERY BY A DEPRESSED CONVALESCENT.—"This Influenza is nothing new, nor is the Microbe. Wasn't MICROBIUS an ancient classic writer? Didn't he treat this subject historically? There's evidently some confusion of ideas somewhere. As Hamlet says:—
'O, cursed spite
That ever I was born to set it right.'
But I beg pardon, that 'set it right' shows that Hamlet was a Surgeon, not a Physician. Excuse me. 'To bed! To bed!'"
SAD THOUGHT IN MY OWN LIBRARY.—I am a stranger among books. Resting on their shelves, they all turn their backs on me. En revanche, if I find among them a new one, a perfect stranger to me, I cut him.
