“O Fadder, give thy servant this mornin’ de eye of de eagle and de wisdom
of de owl; connect his soul with de gospel telephone in de central skies;
’luminate his brow with de sun of heaben; pizen his mind with love for
de people; turpentine his ’magination; grease his lips with ’possum oil;
power; ’lectrify his brain with de lightnin’ of de loosen his tongue
with de sledge hammer of thy word; put ’petual motion in his ahms; fill
him plum’ full of de dynamite of thy glory; ’noint him all over with de
kerosene oil of thy salvation, and sot him on the fire. Amen!”
_The Raptures of Cupid_
_In the April issue we published a model love letter, and
since then we have been deluged with dimes from anxious swains
asking us to hurry along another letter, as their sweethearts
had answered the first and were expecting another. As we are
always ready to sympathize with crooning youths, and wish to be
obliging, we are offering another captivating love note in the
following_:
My dear Miss Gumptious: Every time I think of you, my heart flops up and
down like a churn dasher. Sensations of unutterable joy caper over it
like young goats on a stable roof, and thrill through it like Spanish
needles through a pair of two linen trousers. As a gosling swimmeth with
delight in a mud puddle, so swim I in a sea of glory. Visions of ecstatic
rapture, thicker than the hairs of a blacking brush, and brighter than
the hues of a humming bird’s pinions, visit me in my slumbers; and,
borne on their invisible wings, your image stands before me, and I reach
out to grasp it, like a pointer snapping at a blue-bottle fly. When I
first beheld your angelic perfections I was bewildered, and my brain
whirled ’round like a bumble bee under a glass tumbler. My eyes stood
open like cellar doors in a country town, and I lifted up my ears to
catch the silvery accents of your voice. My tongue refused to wag and in
silent adoration I drank in the sweet infection of love as a thirsty man
swalloweth a tumbler of hot whiskey punch.
Since the light of your face fell upon my life, I sometimes feel as
if I could lift myself up by my boot straps to the top of the church
steeple, and pull the bell rope for singing school. Day and night you
are in my thoughts. When Aurora, rising from her saffron-colored couch,
blushing like a bride; when the jay bird pipes his tuneful lay in the
apple tree by the spring house; when the chanticleer’s shrill clarion
heralds the coming morn; when the awakening pig ariseth from his bed
and grunteth, and goeth forth for his morning refreshments; when the
drowsy beetle wheels to droning flight at sultry noontide; and when the
lowing herds come home at milking time, I think of thee; and, like a
piece of gum elastic, my heart seems stretched clear across my bosom.
Your hair is like the mane of a sorrel horse, powdered with gold, and
the brass pins skewered through your water-fall fill me with unbounded
awe. Your forehead is smoother than the elbow of an old coat; your eyes
are glorious to behold. In their liquid depths I see legions of little
Cupids bathing, like a cohort of ants in an old Army cracker. When their
fire hit me upon my manly breast, it penetrated my whole anatomy, as a
load of bird shot through a rotten apple. Your nose is a chunk of Parian
marble, and your mouth is puckered with sweetness. Nectar lingers on your
lips, like honey on a bear’s paw; and myriads of unfledged kisses are
there, ready to fly out and light somewhere, like bluebirds out of their
parents’ nest. Your laugh rings in my ears like the windharp’s strain, or
the bleat of a stray lamb on a bleak hillside. The dimples in your cheeks
are like bowers in beds of roses—hollows in cakes of home-made sugar.
I am dying to fly to thy presence, and pour out the burning eloquence of
my love, as thrifty housewives pour out hot coffee. Away from you I am as
melancholy as a rat.
Sometimes, I can hear the June bugs of despondency buzzing in my ears,
and feel the cold lizards of despair crawling down my back. Uncouth
fears, like a thousand minnows, nibble at my spirits; and my soul is
pierced with doubts, as an old cheese is bored with skippers.
My love for you is stronger than the smell of patent butter, or the kick
of a young cow, and more unselfish than a kitten’s first catterwaul. As a
song bird hankers for the light of day, the cautious mouse for the fresh
bacon in the trap, as a mean pup hankers after new milk, so I long for
thee.
You are fairer than a speckled pullet, sweeter than a Yankee doughnut
fried in sorghum molasses, brighter than the top knot plumage of muscovy
ducks. You are candy, kisses, raisins, pound-cake and sweetened toddy
altogether.
If these few remarks will enable you to see the inside of my soul, and me
to win your affection, I shall be as happy as a woodpecker on a cherry
tree, or a stage horse in a green pasture. If you cannot reciprocate my
thrilling passion, I will pine away like a poisoned bed bug, and fall
away from a flourishing vine of life an untimely branch; and, in the
coming years, when the shadows grow from the hills, and the philosophical
frog sings his cheerful evening hymn, you, happy in another’s love can
come and cast a tear and catch a cold upon the last resting place of
Yours affectionately,