Drippings From the Fawcett
Oh, for a modern James Whitcomb Riley! Could the incomparable Hoosier poet be with us today, what a masterpiece he could make out of the ordinary news of the day. With such material at hand as this from the columns of the Chicago Herald-Examiner, he could bring tears to the eyes of those with fond reminiscences. Under a heading, “LAST ONE IN CHICAGO DESTROYED BY FIRE,” the newspaper states:
The last one in Chicago burned down last night. The fire engine got around to the back yard of 1102 Hastings st., too late.
Truly, brevity is the soul of wit!
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A news article in the daily papers say a Chicago woman has filed suit against her husband on the ground that he refused to pare her toe nails, and the husband comes back with the counter-charge that she smeared her face with cold cream to such an extent that he’d get it tangled up in his hair during the night.
To our mind, this suit opens up some wonderful possibilities, especially, as Mr. Stillman would say, when the supply of Indian guides gives out. Supposing, as our London co-scribe says, a woman wedded to a highlander discovered after the nuptials that her husband refused to shave the hair off his calves, might she not be able to file her divorce with reasonable hope of success?
Again, we have the man who, when taking a bath, within earshot of his wife’s bedroom, insists on singing unbearable songs of the type the Yanks sang in France—
“She’s Mademoiselle from Armentieres, who hasn’t been kissed for forty years. Hinky Pinky Parley Vouz.”
Surely a Chicago court would grant her a split from her spouse. And a husband who would bite his wife’s mole also might be in danger of being divorced by a woman who believed she was entitled to a less emotional husband.