Read This if You Can.Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for his train and reading theTribune, when a squadron of street Arabs (incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley, uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable gestures of heinous exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.“You little blackguards!” cried Winthrop, stepping outside and confronting them, adding the inquiry, “Whose dog is that?”“That audacious Caucasian has the bravado to interferewith our clique,” tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian, exhibiting combativeness.“What will you take for him?” asked the lenient Geoffrey, ignoring the venial tirade.“Twenty-seven cents,” piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing the crouching dog by the nape.“You can buy licorice and share with the indicorous coadjutors of your condemnable cruelty,” said Winthrop, paying the price and taking the dog from the boy. Then catching up his valise and umbrella, he hastened to his train. Winthrop, satisfied himself that his sleek protégé was not wounded, and then cleared the cement from the pretty collar, and read these words:“Leicester. Licensed, No. 1770.”Hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron’s feet and slept.Among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing vagaries of Indian literature, also two physicians, a somber, irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who made a specialty of bronchitis. Two peremptory attorneys from the legislature of Iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch, and the details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative, and sought condolence in a high lamentable treble from a lethargic and somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated.Near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (from Asia) in a blouse waist and tarpaulin hat, was amusing his patriotic juvenile listeners by relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested by the contents of a knapsack, whichhe was calmly and leisurely arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. Above swung figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements too verbose to be misconstrued.A mature matron of medium height and her comely daughter soon entered the car, and took seats in front of Winthrop (who recalled having seen them one Tuesday in February in the parquet of a theatre). The young lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at her aunt’s. She had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet perfume. She said to her parent, “Mamma, shall we ever find our lost Leicester?”Geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card—“Pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but prithee, have you lost a pet dog?”The explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for Leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality) till, succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his haunches, complacently contemplating his friends. It was truly an interesting picture.They reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon. Often during the summer Winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay with the naive and blithe Beatrice, in her jaunty yachting suit, but no coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. Little Less, their jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel) always attended them on these occasions, and whene’er they rambled through the woodland paths. While the band played Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bach, and others, they promenaded the long corridors ofthe hotel. And one evening, as Beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger.Let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance, and around a cheerful hearth we see again Geoffrey and Beatrice, who are paying due homage to their tiny friend Leicester.—Quarterly Elocutionist.
Read This if You Can.Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for his train and reading theTribune, when a squadron of street Arabs (incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley, uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable gestures of heinous exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.“You little blackguards!” cried Winthrop, stepping outside and confronting them, adding the inquiry, “Whose dog is that?”“That audacious Caucasian has the bravado to interferewith our clique,” tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian, exhibiting combativeness.“What will you take for him?” asked the lenient Geoffrey, ignoring the venial tirade.“Twenty-seven cents,” piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing the crouching dog by the nape.“You can buy licorice and share with the indicorous coadjutors of your condemnable cruelty,” said Winthrop, paying the price and taking the dog from the boy. Then catching up his valise and umbrella, he hastened to his train. Winthrop, satisfied himself that his sleek protégé was not wounded, and then cleared the cement from the pretty collar, and read these words:“Leicester. Licensed, No. 1770.”Hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron’s feet and slept.Among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing vagaries of Indian literature, also two physicians, a somber, irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who made a specialty of bronchitis. Two peremptory attorneys from the legislature of Iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch, and the details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative, and sought condolence in a high lamentable treble from a lethargic and somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated.Near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (from Asia) in a blouse waist and tarpaulin hat, was amusing his patriotic juvenile listeners by relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested by the contents of a knapsack, whichhe was calmly and leisurely arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. Above swung figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements too verbose to be misconstrued.A mature matron of medium height and her comely daughter soon entered the car, and took seats in front of Winthrop (who recalled having seen them one Tuesday in February in the parquet of a theatre). The young lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at her aunt’s. She had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet perfume. She said to her parent, “Mamma, shall we ever find our lost Leicester?”Geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card—“Pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but prithee, have you lost a pet dog?”The explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for Leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality) till, succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his haunches, complacently contemplating his friends. It was truly an interesting picture.They reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon. Often during the summer Winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay with the naive and blithe Beatrice, in her jaunty yachting suit, but no coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. Little Less, their jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel) always attended them on these occasions, and whene’er they rambled through the woodland paths. While the band played Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bach, and others, they promenaded the long corridors ofthe hotel. And one evening, as Beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger.Let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance, and around a cheerful hearth we see again Geoffrey and Beatrice, who are paying due homage to their tiny friend Leicester.—Quarterly Elocutionist.
Geoffrey, surnamed Winthrop, sat in the depot at Chicago waiting for his train and reading theTribune, when a squadron of street Arabs (incomparable for squalor), thronged from a neighboring alley, uttering hideous cries, accompanied by inimitable gestures of heinous exultation, as they tortured an humble black and tan dog.
“You little blackguards!” cried Winthrop, stepping outside and confronting them, adding the inquiry, “Whose dog is that?”
“That audacious Caucasian has the bravado to interferewith our clique,” tauntingly shrieked the indisputable little ruffian, exhibiting combativeness.
“What will you take for him?” asked the lenient Geoffrey, ignoring the venial tirade.
“Twenty-seven cents,” piquantly answered the ribald urchin, grabbing the crouching dog by the nape.
“You can buy licorice and share with the indicorous coadjutors of your condemnable cruelty,” said Winthrop, paying the price and taking the dog from the boy. Then catching up his valise and umbrella, he hastened to his train. Winthrop, satisfied himself that his sleek protégé was not wounded, and then cleared the cement from the pretty collar, and read these words:
“Leicester. Licensed, No. 1770.”
Hearing the pronunciation of his name, the docile canine expressed gratitude and pleasure, and then sank exhausted at his new patron’s feet and slept.
Among the other passengers was a magazine contributor, writing vagaries of Indian literature, also two physicians, a somber, irrevocable, irrefragable allopathist, and a genial homeopathist, who made a specialty of bronchitis. Two peremptory attorneys from the legislature of Iowa were discussing the politics of the epoch, and the details of national finance, while a wan, dolorous person, wearing concave glasses, alternately ate troches and almonds for a sedative, and sought condolence in a high lamentable treble from a lethargic and somewhat deaf and enervate comrade not yet acclimated.
Near three exemplary brethren (probably sinecurists) sat a group of humorous youths; and a jocose sailor (from Asia) in a blouse waist and tarpaulin hat, was amusing his patriotic juvenile listeners by relating a series of the most extraordinary legends extant, suggested by the contents of a knapsack, whichhe was calmly and leisurely arranging in a pyramidal form on a three-legged stool. Above swung figured placards, with museum and lyceum advertisements too verbose to be misconstrued.
A mature matron of medium height and her comely daughter soon entered the car, and took seats in front of Winthrop (who recalled having seen them one Tuesday in February in the parquet of a theatre). The young lady had recently made her debut into society at a musical soiree at her aunt’s. She had an exquisite bouquet of flowers that exhaled sweet perfume. She said to her parent, “Mamma, shall we ever find our lost Leicester?”
Geoffrey immediately addressed her, saying, as he presented his card—
“Pardon my apparent intrusiveness; but prithee, have you lost a pet dog?”
The explanation that he had been stolen was scarcely necessary, for Leicester, just awakening, vehemently expressed his inexplicable joy by buoyantly vibrating between the two like the sounding lever used in telegraphy (for to neither of them would he show partiality) till, succumbing to ennui, he purported to take a recess, and sat on his haunches, complacently contemplating his friends. It was truly an interesting picture.
They reached their destination ere the sun was beneath the horizon. Often during the summer Winthrop gallantly rowed from the quay with the naive and blithe Beatrice, in her jaunty yachting suit, but no coquetry shone from the depths of her azure eyes. Little Less, their jocund confidante and courier (and who was as sagacious as a spaniel) always attended them on these occasions, and whene’er they rambled through the woodland paths. While the band played Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Bach, and others, they promenaded the long corridors ofthe hotel. And one evening, as Beatrice lighted the gas by the etagere in her charming boudoir in their suite of rooms, there glistened brilliantly a valuable solitaire diamond on her finger.
Let us look into the future for the sequel to perfect this romance, and around a cheerful hearth we see again Geoffrey and Beatrice, who are paying due homage to their tiny friend Leicester.
—Quarterly Elocutionist.