|I HAVE just received a letter from my friend, Bill Nye, of The
Laramie City Boomerang, wherein he informs me that he is engaged to the
beautiful and accomplished Lydia E. Pinkham, of "Vegetable Compounds"
fame, and that the wedding will take place on next Christmas. To be
sure, I am expected at the wedding, and I'll be on hand, if I can
secure a clean shirt by that time, and the roads ain't too bad. But I'm
somewhat at a loss what to get as a suitable present, as Bill informs
me in a postscript to his letter, that gifts of bibles, albums,
nickel-plated pickle dishes, chromos with frames, and the like, will not
be in order, as it is utterly impossible to pawn articles of this kind
in Laramie City.--_The Bohemian_.
We are sorry that the above letter, which we dashed off in a careless
moment, has been placed before the public, as later developments have
entirely changed the aspect of the matter; the engagement between
ourself and Lydia having been rudely broken by the young lady herself.
She has returned the solitaire filled ring, and henceforth we can be
nothing more to each other than friends. The promise which bade fair to
yield so much joy in the future has been ruthlessly yanked asunder, and
two young hearts must bleed through the coming years. Far be it from us
to say aught that would reflect upon the record of Miss Pinkham.
It would only imperil her chances in the future, and deny her the sweet
satisfaction of gathering in another guileless sucker like us. The
truth, however, cannot be evaded, that Lydia is no longer young. She is
now in the sere and yellow leaf. The gurgle of girlhood, and the romping
careless grace of her childhood, are matters of ancient history alone.
We might go on and tell how one thing brought on another, till the
quarrel occurred, and hot words and an assault and battery led to this
estrangement, but we will not do it. It would be wrong for a great,
strong man to take advantage of his strength and the public press,
to speak disparagingly of a young thing like Lyd. No matter how
unreasonably she may have treated us, we are dumb and silent on this
point. Journalists who have been invited, and have purchased costly
wedding presents, may ship the presents _by_ express, prepaid, and we
will accept them, and struggle along with our first great heart trouble,
while Lydia goes on in her mad career.