Memphis daily appeal. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1847-1886, 1878-07-20
POETRY OF THE SEASON.
How Our Sunstr0ke Hunting Reporter
Made PeeticaI Tour OF the City
Yesterday, While Ii was Jolly
Hot, You Know.

The weather is the fruitful source of con-
versatIon at present. We have never had so
much OF such weather before. Our weather
reporter goes around daily and discusses
weather, feels the weather both In the shade
and IN the sun. At the cotton exchange he
finds number of merchants dressed or I'M
dressed in shirts, pants and shoes. They are
armed with fans and use them freely as they
stare at the blackboard cotton quotations.
You may hear one of them singing as fol-
lows:
OH for a lodge In the garden of cucumbersi
OH for an iceberg or two at control!
OH for vale which at midday the dew cumbers,
OH for pleasure trip up to the Polei
Along Front row our reporter finds more
weather. Merchants and clerks occupy chairs,
boxes, sacks, etc., and the whisking of fans
makes music to the ear. They gaze lazily
old inhabitants as the Mississippi river, and
they take in the Arkansas shore, with the
village of Hopefeld embowered In the forest
and looking coolly oversat her heated sister
Memphis. From even across the river comes
the refrain:
OH for little one-sIory thermometer,
With nothing but ZerOs all ranged in a row
OH for a big double-barIeled hydrometer,
To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!
Along Main street our weatherman walks
slowly, hugging the shady side of it, If it
Can be found. The stores are almost desert
the proprietors and clerks lean on the coun
tiers and gaze wonderingly out at the heated
street. They look as if they languidly desired
puff of fresh air. a volume of cool oxygen
gas, rain storm, lemonade, or a glass of
lager. They long for the week to be over, so
that on Sunday they can seek suburban
shades, where, like Tityrus, they could re-
cline beneath the spreading beech tree; but
the beech trees of Virgil are In Italy, while
here we have the glorious magnolia. Yet
even these storekeepers and clerks have their
song
Oh! that this cold world were twenty times colder!
On! for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder;
Oh! what comfort an ague would be!
Our reporter entered blacksmith shop
yesterday-Con Rawlings's, up in North
Memphis-and found that son of Erin black
coal dust. 1t was the double extract of heat.
The putting forge. the flying sparks and
black dust reminded our man of some other
place in the future. As the sturdy smith
ratified his hammer on the anvil and forged
muie-shoes, his African assistant swung the
sledge. At every kissing blow a fash of adj
ditional heat followed, and our man was
forced to leave, singing as he went:
Oh! for grotto to typify heaven,
Sco0ped In the rock unCer cataract vast;
Oil for winter of discomfort even,
Oh! for wet blankets judiciously cast
Away on the back streets our man wan
dered in search of news. He went on pur-
posely and mechanically, AS if hunting sun
stroke. He saw young men and girls sic
ting on the doorsteps, tanning, flirting, court
ing, and it reminded him of his war days
down in Dixie, when. But we were
writing about the boys and the girls on
the doorsteps, who warbled the following
summer idyl as duet:
Obi for a soda fountain spouting up boldly
From every hot lamp post against the hot sky!
Oh! for proud maiden to look on me cOldly,
Freezing my soul with a glance of her eyel