How I love you, how I love you,
Oh, you therapeutic dove, you!
How I long to snuggle coyly on your chest;
And reposing there to woo you,
Till, with soft responsive coo, you
Bid me share your warm but hygienic nest!
Though I might have oft been married,
I have tarried, I have tarried,
Hoping still that I should catch you on the hop;
For to pining, lonely Mary
To be George's own canary
Would be sweeter than the sweetest ginger pop.
"'George'--in the title and body of the poem--can of course be altered,
if necessary; but something, I know not what, tells me that that is his
name, and that it is probably followed by Harris. I may be mistaken, but
George Harris, as I feel I know him, is a simple, muscular young man,
addicted to tennis and his bicycle, fairly good at diagnosing whooping
cough or a broken leg. He likes his pipe and reads the _Referee_ on
Sunday mornings. Mary, however, will change all that. She will furnish
in fumed oak, art flower-pots, and the poems of ELLA WHEELER WILCOX, and
so will lead him gradually to higher and better things. I wish her all
success.
Yours,
Edwin.
P.S.--It is true that doves seldom marry canaries, nor do the latter
drink ginger beer to any considerable extent. But George will not notice
these discrepancies. He is not hypercritical."
Two days later I heard from Grace again.
Dear Edwin,--Thank you so much for the verses, though perhaps they are a
little--well, a little outspoken, aren't they? Unfortunately, Mary's
friend is not named George or Harris. He is not even English, but a very
nice dark brown man from Asia, a Hindu, I think, and only _trying_ to be
a doctor at present. As soon as he is one he is going back again. I
ought to have told you this before, as I feel it might have helped you.
But thanks very much all the same.
Yours affectionately,