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Have I said anywhere in this paper that Spring has come? Well, I say
it now. It is a sad, gloomy time to man, however woman may look at it.
It is now that the family man sees looming ahead the Easter bonnet
trimmed with deadly $ marks, and the Spring outfits embroidered with
the same costly material. Why is this? Now, I have known X., my next
door neighbor, for eleven years, and in that time I have never known
him to have an Easter hat or an Easter coat or an Easter pair of pants.
I saw him at the Opera lately and his wife had on a seal skin sacque,
and plain X. himself had on no gloves. Why should X. be compelled to
carry through life a bird of paradise, while he appears in the sombre
and often shiny costume of the more humble crow? And now that I have
asked that audacious question, let me ask another: Why is it that as
soon as the frost of age touches a man he commences to tone down his
dress, and as soon as it touches a woman she commences to tone hers
up with all the hot house appliances to imitate the spring time of
life. I don't ask this in a snarly spirit; but as a psychological
riddle. Why is it that in November, with all her brown foliage and
scarlet leaves and wind reddened sky, cannot be content with being
handsome and natural, but should resort to the buds and flowers and
bird-like airs of beautiful June to make her pretty. Ah, there are no
flowers, no feathers, no ribbons, no latest fashions that can hold
their own against Youth. Before it the milliner, the tailor and the
mantua-maker are helpless to render effective assistance to Age. Ah,
Youth, careless, painless, peerless, I drink to you--and put a drop
of peppermint in it. Tom, I was up a little late with the boys last
evening.