The tender young poet who began, “I kissed her under the silent stars,” and whom the newspaper to which he sent the poem represented as beginning, “I kicked her under the cellar-stairs,” appeared before the editors and publishers assembled in convention at Lockport, New York, and preferred the request that the name of the room from which typographical errors emanate might be changed forthwith. He wants it called the discomposing room.
A young lady of Atlanta says there is no woman living who could interest her with a lecture on “kisses.” She says that she can get more satisfaction from the lips of a young man, on a moonlight night, than a woman could tell in a thousand years. That young lady is posted.
A teacher in De Witt County has introduced a new feature in his school. When one of the girls misses a word, the boy who spells it gets permission to kiss her. The result is that the girls are fast forgetting what they ever knew about spelling, while the boys are improving with wonderful rapidity.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Marrowfat, dropping the paper from her nerveless grasp, and leaning back in her chair with an expression of blank astonishment on her countenance, “Gracious heavens, Miltiades, what a ‘paroxysmal kiss’?” Mr. Marrowfat, assuming a very serious aspect, observed, “A ‘paroxysmal kiss,’ my love, is a kiss buttered with soul-lightning.”
“Ma, has aunty got bees in her mouth?” “No; why do you ask such a question?” “’Cause that leetle man with a heap o’ hair on his face cotched hold of her, and said he was going to take the honey from her lips; and she said, ‘Well, make haste!’”