Читать книгу Frontier Humor in Verse, Prose and Picture - Палмер Кокс - Страница 4

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Heigh ho, the New Year is again upon us with its open houses, its “hope you’re wells,” and its “bye bye’s.”

Let what will grow dull or rusty, the sweeping scythe of old Time is ever sharp and busy. How tempered must be that blade which nothing can dull or turn aside.

Now as I sit by my window and look pensively out upon the streets I see them crowded with callers, all anxious to increase the number of their acquaintances. They ring, scrape, and wait. The door opens and they disappear from my view, but fancy pictures them out as they doubtless appear inside, embarrassed because of a painful dearth of words. The weather, fortunately, is a standing theme of conversation. It will always bear comment, and but for this how many callers—who perhaps can hardly come under the head of acquaintances—would wish themselves well out upon the street again, even before sampling the customary wine and cake.

But Fashion is King, and when he nods, his satellites and minions must obey or perish. But I, who come not under the awe of his scepter, have few calls to make. With a leaking roof and no bolt to my door I can keep “open house” without going to the expense of procuring cake or wine, and for this left-handed blessing may the Lord make me truly thankful.

STARTING OUT.

I have been sitting by my window most of the day, watching gentlemen—who were not so fortunate as myself. And I notice with considerable pain—for as reader and writer cannot understand each other too soon, I may as well inform you at once that I am a philanthropist—that some of these callers present an aspect in the evening quite different from their festive morning appearance. Here, for instance, is a sketch of an exquisite as he appears when starting to make his numerous calls. Mark what grace is in every movement as he struts the pavement with military precision, adjusting his lavender-colored kids as he goes. There is something in the airy set of his stylish new stove-pipe, in the very easy elegance of manner with which he holds the crystal orb over his left optic, that bespeaks the born gentleman. Not to a rise in stocks, he would tell you, or a lucky lottery ticket, does he owe his carriage, but to a line of ancestors which he can trace back, perhaps, to the very loins of William the Conqueror.

A LITTLE MIXED.

Look now upon this picture. The unpracticed eye could hardly recognize the gentleman, and yet this is the same sociable but absent-minded individual, as he appeared in the evening frogging up the steps of the dwelling opposite, to make his third call upon the same family. He is evidently “turned around,” poor fellow. Ah, this mixing of coffee, tea, and wine, not to mention stronger potations, will play the mischief with a man, and no mistake about it. The young ladies, with mouths ajar and dilated eyes, look out upon him through partially closed blinds. But he recks not of it as he leans backward, pulling and jerking at the bell knob as though he was drawing on a tight boot. The bell-hanger will doubtless have a job in that house to-morrow. The question naturally arises, will they chalk the gentleman down as a caller each time he favors them with his presence? Now that I think of it, they might do so with an easy conscience, for he is certainly not the man he was when he first offered the compliments of the day.