CALIFORNIAN SUMMER PICTURESTHE FOOT-HILL RESORTAssembled in the parlorOf the place of last resort,The smiler and the snarlerAnd the guests of every sort—The elocution chapWith rhetoric on tap;The mimic and the funny dog;The social sponge; the money-hog;Vulgarian and dude;And the prude;The adiposing dameWith pimply face aflame;The kitten-playful virgin—Vergin' on to fifty years;The solemn-looking sturgeonOf a firm of auctioneers;The widower flirtatious;The widow all too gracious;The man with a proboscis and a sepulcher beneath.One assassin picks the banjo, and another picks his teeth.AT ANCHORThe soft asphaltum in the sun;Betrays a tendency to run;Whereas the dog that takes his wayAcross its course concludes to stay.THE IN-COMING CLIMATENow o' nights the ocean breezeMakes the patient flinch,For that zephyr bears a sneezeIn every cubic inch.Lo! the lively populationChorusing in sternutationA catarrhal acclamation!A LONG-FELT WANTDimly apparent, through the gloomOf Market-street's opaque simoom,A queue of people, parti-sexed,Awaiting the command of "Next!"A sidewalk booth, a dingy sign:"Teeth dusted nice—five cents a shine."TO THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDSWide windy reaches of high stubble field;A long gray road, bordered with dusty pines;A wagon moving in a "cloud by day."Two city sportsmen with a dove between,Breast-high upon a fence and fast asleep—A solitary dove, the only doveIn twenty counties, and it sick, or elseIt were not there. Two guns that fire as one,With thunder simultaneous and loud;Two shattered human wrecks of blood and bone!And later, in the gloaming, comes a man—The worthy local coroner is he,Renowned all thereabout, and popularWith many a remain. All tenderlyCompiling in a game-bag the dibris,He glides into the gloom and fades from sight.The dove, cured of its ailment by the shock,Has flown, meantime, on pinions strong and fleet,To die of age in some far foreign land.
THE FOOT-HILL RESORTAssembled in the parlorOf the place of last resort,The smiler and the snarlerAnd the guests of every sort—The elocution chapWith rhetoric on tap;The mimic and the funny dog;The social sponge; the money-hog;Vulgarian and dude;And the prude;The adiposing dameWith pimply face aflame;The kitten-playful virgin—Vergin' on to fifty years;The solemn-looking sturgeonOf a firm of auctioneers;The widower flirtatious;The widow all too gracious;The man with a proboscis and a sepulcher beneath.One assassin picks the banjo, and another picks his teeth.
AT ANCHORThe soft asphaltum in the sun;Betrays a tendency to run;Whereas the dog that takes his wayAcross its course concludes to stay.
THE IN-COMING CLIMATENow o' nights the ocean breezeMakes the patient flinch,For that zephyr bears a sneezeIn every cubic inch.Lo! the lively populationChorusing in sternutationA catarrhal acclamation!
A LONG-FELT WANTDimly apparent, through the gloomOf Market-street's opaque simoom,A queue of people, parti-sexed,Awaiting the command of "Next!"A sidewalk booth, a dingy sign:"Teeth dusted nice—five cents a shine."
TO THE HAPPY HUNTING GROUNDSWide windy reaches of high stubble field;A long gray road, bordered with dusty pines;A wagon moving in a "cloud by day."Two city sportsmen with a dove between,Breast-high upon a fence and fast asleep—A solitary dove, the only doveIn twenty counties, and it sick, or elseIt were not there. Two guns that fire as one,With thunder simultaneous and loud;Two shattered human wrecks of blood and bone!And later, in the gloaming, comes a man—The worthy local coroner is he,Renowned all thereabout, and popularWith many a remain. All tenderlyCompiling in a game-bag the dibris,He glides into the gloom and fades from sight.The dove, cured of its ailment by the shock,Has flown, meantime, on pinions strong and fleet,To die of age in some far foreign land.