Dangers of “Prize Competition"
“My dear,” said the competition editor, “ my dear, will you kindly slip your hand into my top-coat pocket and give me my cigar case ? The coat is hanging up in the hall.” His obliging wife, anxious to explore those mysterious receptacles of man—his pockets performed the task with alacrity, but in the inside coat lining she felt a letter, and, although to get that letter out necessitated ripping up the stitches, she never hesitated a moment, nor, as the descriptive writer puts it, “shrank from her self-appointed task.” It was a female hand—a delicate, angular, kiss me quick, Italian, three guineas for twelve lessons sort of hand. To tear it open was her first thought. Her next to quietly steam it over a cup of boiling water. She adopted the latter device. Sharps, flats, and candlesticks, it was poetry ! She read it aloud to the maid of-all-work, as follows I KNOW NOT. I know not If thy spirit weaveth ever The golden fantasies of mine for thee; I only know my love is a great river, And thou the sea ! I know not if thy poet heart's emotion Responsive beats to mine through many a chord ; I only foci for my untold devotion A rich reward. I know not if the time to thee is dreary, When ne’er to meet we pass the wintry days ; 1 only know my muse is never weary, The theme thy praise.
I know not if the grass were waving o’er me, Would Nature's voice for thee keep sadder tune; I only know wert thou gone home before me, I’d follow soon. But while thou walk’st the earth with brave heart beating, I’il singing go, though ail unreoked by thee; My great affection floweth like a river, And thou the sea. “ What do you think of it, Mary ?” asked the mistress.
“ It’s bootiful,” said Mary; “prettier nor my young man sends about the violets and things.” “ It’s disgraceful,” said the mistress, and she flounced into the parlot. There was for the space of three minutes a deadly struggle ; then the editor’s wife returned to the kitchen, and deposited on the table the trophy of her victory. It was the editor’s right whisker.^ “ Let the brazen hussy write again to him with her ‘affection flowing like a river’; she’ll find him strangely altered,” said she, sitting down calmly, and listening to her husband’s groans with a callosity born of spleen, She only found out late in the evening that it was a prize competition which had gone astray in the ample folds of his Chesterfield.—‘ Puck.’
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Dangers of “Prize Competition", Evening Star, Issue 8030, 5 October 1889, Supplement
Dangers of “Prize Competition" Evening Star, Issue 8030, 5 October 1889, Supplement
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