backs;
And the horse-cars lurch and the people run
And the bell at the bridgeway rings--
But never perspires a single one,
Attending to matters and things.

What though the shivering mercury wanes--
What though the air be chill?
The beauteous Chloe never complains
As she roams by the purpling rill;
And the torn-tit coos to its gentle mate,
As Chloe industriously swings
With Daphnis, her beau, on the old front gate,
Attending to matters and things.

When the moon comes up, and her cold, pale light
Coquettes with the freezing streams,
What care these twain for the wintry night,
Since Chloe is wrapt in dreams,
And Daphnis utters no plaint of woe
O'er his fair jack full on kings,
But smiles that fortune should bless him so,
Attending to matters and things.

CHICAGO IN AUGUST

When Cynthia's father homeward brought
An India mull for her to wear,
How were her handsome features fraught
With radiant smiles beyond compare!
And to her bosom Cynthia strained
Her pa with many a fond caress--
And ere another week had waned
That mull was made into a dress.

And Cynthia blooming like a rose
Which any swain might joy to cull,
Cried "How I'll paralyze the beaux
When I put on my India mull!"
Now let the heat of August day
Be what it may--I'll not complain--
I'll wear the mull, and put away
This old and faded-out delaine!

Despite her prayers the heated spell
Descended not on mead and wold--
Instead of turning hot as--well,
The weather turned severely cold,
The Lake dashed up its icy spray
And breathed its chill o'er all the plain--
Cynthia stays at home all day
And wears the faded-out delaine!

So is Chicago at this time--
She stands where icy billows roll--
She wears her beauteous head sublime,
While cooling zephyrs thrill her soul.
But were she tempted to complain,
Methinks she'd bid the zephyrs lull,
That she might doff her old delaine
And don her charming India mull!_

But there was another feature of Chicago that from the day of his
arrival to the day of his departure to that land where dust troubleth
not and soot and filth are unknown, filled his New England soul and
nostrils with ineffable disgust. He never became reconciled to a
condition in which the motto _in hoc signo vinces_ on a bar of
soap had no power to inspire a ray of hope. He had not