Washington, D.C., April 18th, 1862.
Having a leisure hour at my disposal, my boy, and being reminded of infatuating crinoline by the reception of certain bird-like notes in chirography strongly resembling the exquisite edging on delicious pantalettes, I turn my attention to that beautiful creation which is fearfully and wonderfully maid, and wears distracting gaiters.
Woman, my boy, at her worst, is a source of real happiness to the sterner sex. There's a chap in the Mackerel Brigade who got very melancholy one day after receiving a letter from home, wherein he was affectionately called "a unnatural and wicious creetur" for not sending his better-half a new dress and some hair-pins. Seeing his affliction, and divining its cause, another Mackerel stepped up to him, and says he:
"Is it the old woman which is on a tare?"
The married chap groaned, and says he:
"She's mad as a hornet. I do believe," says the married chap, turning very pale, "that she'll take away my night-key, and teach my babes to call me the Old File."
"Well," says the comforting Mackerel, "then why did you get married? Why didn't you stay a single bachelor like me, and enjoy the pursuit of happiness in the Fire Department?"
"Happiness!" says the married chap, "why it was expressly to enjoy happiness that I wedded. Step this way," says the married chap, with a horrible smile, leading his consoler aside, "ain't the women of America mortal?"
"Yes," says the Mackerel thoughtfully.
"And don't they die?"