Beloit, in Wisconsin, boasts a wife who has not spoken to her husband for fifteen years. Fifteen long years! Happy man!—happy woman! No insanity, no divorce, no murder, but Silence. Why isn't this wondrous woman brought to the platform, Miss ANTHONY?
[Footnote 1: Certain fancied points of resemblance having led some persons to suppose that Bumsteadville means Rochester, the Adapter is impelled to declare that such is not the case.]
[Footnote 2: In compliance with the modern demand for fine realistic accuracy in art, the Adapter, previous to making his delineation of Mr. BUMSTEAD public, submitted it to the judgment of a physician having a large practice amongst younger journalists and Members of the Legislature. This authority, after due critical inspection, pronounced it psychologically correct as a study of monomania a potu.]
THE JOYS OF SUMMER.
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I've Had my annual dream Of boats and fishing, Congress-water, cream, Strawberry-shortcake, lager-bier, iced punch, And lobster-salad lunch. It came about midday, Toward the latter part of "flowering May"— When nothing's fit to eat, or drink, or wear, And nothing suits but air. Let Summer come! said I; Let something happen quick, or I shall die! I want to change my diet, clothes,—my skin,— Myself, if not a sin! (One thing, I would remark, I didn't dream of: that was Central Park.) All these (the Park included) I have had; Of course you think I'm glad. No, I can't say I am. Your summer, I must tell you, is a sham! I might, perhaps, have some poetic flights, If I could sleep o' nights! But who on earth can sleep When the thermometer's so awful steep? The night, if anything, (at least our way,) Is hotter than the day! And then—my stars!—oh, then! When sleep would kindly visit weary men, The dread mosquito stings away his rest. Ah-h-h! curse that pest! But breakfast comes,—so soon You almost wish they'd put it off till noon! Five minutes' sleep—no appetite—no force: You're jolly, now, of course! You sip your breakfast tea— If with your qualmy stomach 'twill agree, Or your weak coffee,—weighing, with dismay, The prospects of the day. Hot! you may well say Hot, When Blistering would hit it to a dot! The cheerful round is brilliantly begun— And everything "well done." |