["There is a theory.... according to which Texas owes its torrid
climate to the fact that it is separated only by a sheet of
brown paper from a reservoir of heat not of solar origin. During
the last few days it must have occurred to many to suspect that
the partition between ourselves and that great store of caloric
must by some untoward accident have been reduced to something of
Texan tenuity."--_The Times._]
The summer had gone, from city and park,
But--in mid-September--_came back_ for a lark!
And banged the thermometer up again.
It made Mr. BULL mop, and puff, and perspire;
It filled Mrs. BULL with amazement and ire,
And throttled her poor old pug pup again.
For fires had been lighted and top-coats put on.
When--something amazing occurred in the sun,
And "heat-waves" went wildly cavorting
About our old planet in fashion quite frantic.
The Briton was floored by the wonderful antic.
Played midmost his season of sporting.
"Eh? Ninety degrees in the shade--in September?
So monstrous a marvel I do not remember!
Here, put away bag, gun, and cartridges!
Bring in a cider-cup--iced. My dear boy,
Sport, at midsummer heat, who _can_ really enjoy,
By Jove! It will roast the young partridges!"
"A hundred and nine! Nay, a hundred and ten!
By Jove, it will melt off the point of my pen!!!"
The editor howled in his snuggery.
The dandy in shirt-sleeves sat down to his dinner.
The City Police grew perceptibly thinner,
The cab-driver sported a puggaree.
It played up the mischief with pleasure and work,
It played into the hands of athletes in New York,
Who licked molten Britishers hollow.
It set the 'bus drivers indulging in naps,
It made evening papers use up all their "caps,"
And it hindered the flight of the swallow.
It fogged all earth's creatures from mammoth to midge,
It made the bees swarm under Blackfriars Bridge,
And owls play strange freaks down at Chiswick;
And when it got over a hundred and nine,
It worked on some portly old buffers like wine,
On some elderly fogies like physic.
O summer's a guest we all part with in sorrow;
But when she comes back the day after to-morrow,
(Instead of in six months, or seven,)
Before her late sorrowing mourners are ready,
Society's course she is apt to unsteady,
Till we wish her in Tophet--or heaven.
But there is one thing our late summer has done:
It has widened the realm of the Spirit of Fun!
Ironical? Nay, not a particle!
We'll pardon this "heat-wave" a lot of small crimes
Because--_it has made our own serious "Times"
Indulge in a humorous article!!!_
* * * * *
THE AGE OF LOVE (_computed by the Daily Telegraph_).--The time of the
Silly Season.
* * * * *