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A Poetic Widow

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Virginia (Nev.) Enterprise. Our mutual friend Spykens has "made a mash," to use the language of the worldly. He incidentally became acquainted with tho widow McWinzie at a church social last f all. She has now come to the conclusión that he is her natural añinity, and wants him for her fourth husband. Her strong suit is poetry, or, as she expresses it, "human eesthetic rhynie; the sweet, responsive echo of soul to soul." "Dear Mr. Spykens," sighed the widow the other evening, puckering her mouth down to the size of a shirt button-hole, as it were, you have lived and loved. The mellifiuous profundity of your sympathetic soul has always required that you should." "Ah, ves, Mrs. McWinzie, you bet, j n "Cali me Hitty, dear; my name is Mehitable, and those most endeared to me always cali me Hitty." "All right; Hitty goes." "Well, as I was about remarking, my nature was aboriginally poetic; away up among the embarrassed clouds of Heaven's sublimated artillery. My first husband was a dear genial spirit, attuned to poetic harmony. but nothing could rhyme with his name. It was Tulkington. I used to weave it into poetic verse by abreviating it to Tulky, but even then it never would make'a smooth rhyme with any other word. ïwo short years he loved and languished, and then sank to eternal rest as sof tly as though the springs of his couch had been the Springs of Parnassus." "Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Spykens, "what a rattling good obitu ary you must have written for him!" "Áh, me," sighed the wiidow, "I tried over a year to write seven verses suitable, and perhaps might have succeeded, had I not been wooed and won by Jason Babcock. My new married life was bright and hopeful until I tried to merge it into poesy. The culmina tion carne when I composed twentyseven verses, each one rhyming his name, the best of which were mason, bason, face-on. Then ho closed the doors of his heart, took his overcoat and valise, and bade me farewell for ever. I never saw or heard of him more." "What a miserable, narrow guage, unappreciative wretch he must have been." The widow gave a responsivo roll of her dark eyes towards the sympathetic Spykens, as she continued: "Yes, the rythmatic music of poetry did not abound in his worldly soul, and my own longing heart almost perished before I procured a divorce on the ground of desertion. Then I married my old friend and schoolmate, Timothy McWinzie. He had a soul f uil of sympathy, and when he realized how my poetic nature was crushed by the very idea of making rhymes of his name, or any parf ot it, he earnestly, yet rashly, attenipted t himself. For days and weeks he wrote, and went about the house muttering to himself binzle, crinzle, dinzle, finzle, ginzle, hinzle, and his last words as he died m the insane asylum, were minzle pinzle, stinzle, zinzle." "How dramatically sad," moaned Spykens, as he reflectod on the rhyming possibilities and calamities of his own name. "Did you ever read Thaddeus of Washoe?" asked she, beamiag her loving eyes, full of literary intelligence, fiifi upon him as she gently laid her hand upon his coat sleeve. Spykens owned up that he hadn't, and tore himself away from her sweet presence, pleading pressing business engagements. The widow had money in bank, and a whole pile of stocks, and is looked upon as a desirable matrimonial investment, but when Spykens reflects, musingly, uuon the sad fate of those three husbands, two killed and one driven away by her infernal poetry, assisted materially, no doubt, by her large, cold, clammy feet, he concludes to remain single.


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