Flood in half-an-hour—

That she, with a womanly care for her bonnet,

Which would “spot,” with the least drop of water upon it,

Page 39.

Might become condescending, and humbly implore him

To come along-side with his cotton umbrella.

But the shower didn’t come, and without a disaster,

They reached the huge Library—christened of Astor.

Then she shook down her skirts to their natural latitude—

Ahem’d once or twice—struck out a nice attitude—

And then she struck into this little oration,

Though I’m sure I don’t know where she learned declamation.

“Spirit, behold! these bending shelves

Are groaning ’neath the gathered store

Of every nation’s varied lore.

Most welcome are the poor themselves

To freely turn these countless pages,

And gather from the words of sages

All the light of former ages.

Whoever wills is here a guest,

The poorest are the welcomest.

Who hath done this? your virtuous mob,

Or a ‘cold-hearted miser,’ a ‘pampered snob’?”

Here her Companion began to perceive

That her feminine tongue would have its own way;

That the cleverest thing he could do was to leave

The talking to her, and have Nothing to Say.

The lady had now been chattering so long,

She felt that her voice was beginning to fail her;

A punch would, she felt, be a blessing and boon,

The “dientical” thing with which to regale her,

So they pushed their way through the gathering throng,

And hurried away to Taylor’s Saloon.

They seated themselves at the table together,—

The customers “staring their eyes out,” to see

Who this queer-looking couple could possibly be,—

Asking each other in whispers, whether,

It wasn’t the likeliest thing that she,

Was a Western Actress, and he an Editor;

And some were terribly frightened, because

They couldn’t help thinking there certainly was,

The Old Nick to pay, and that he was their creditor.

But the strangers composedly sat, never heeding

These stupid remarks, or taking offence,

And they quietly kept on their drinking and feeding,

Without the slightest regard to expense.

If an appetite sharp is a thing so delightful,

Charity had no occasion to sigh at hers;

Boarding-house keepers would say it was frightful,

And ruinous too, to the hotel proprietors.

They were sated at last, and turned from the door;

He, wondering whither she now would go—

And well he might—in an instant more

He was over shoes in the frozen snow;

While she coolly remarked, with a Camille cough,

That