Uncle. “But Dubble L. Dee—”
Smitherton (speaking very loud). “Captain Pratt, on the contrary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this position, was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four thousand miles west was twenty-four hours, or one day, behind the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday—thus with you, to-day is Sunday—and thus with Pratt, to-morrow will be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively clear that that we are all right; for there can be no philosophical reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have preference over that of the other.”
Uncle. “My eyes!—well, Kate—well Bobby!—this is a judgment upon me as you say. But I am a man of my word—mark that! You shall have her, my boy (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove! Three Sundays in a row! I’ll go and take Dubble L. Dee’s opinion upon that.”
[456-1] A poet is born, not made.
THE MODERN BELLE
By Stark
She sits in a fashionable parlor,
And rocks in her easy chair;
She is clad in silks and satins,
And jewels are in her hair;
She winks and giggles and simpers,
And simpers and giggles and winks;
And though she talks but little,
’Tis a good deal more than she thinks.
She lies abed in the morning
Till nearly the hour of noon,
Then comes down snapping and snarling
Because she was called so soon;
Her hair is still in papers,
Her cheeks still fresh with paint,—
Remains of her last night’s blushes,
Before she intended to faint.