San Marcos free press. [volume] (San Marcos, Tex.) 1877-1892, 1883-06-28
A Poetic Widow.

of the worldly. He incidentally be-
came acquainted with the Widow
McWinzie at church social last fall.
She has now come to the conclusion
that he is her natural affinity and
wants him for her fourth husband.
Her strong suit is poetry, or, as she
expresses it, human aesthetic rhyme
the sweet responsive echo of soul to
soul"
Dear Mr.. Spykens," sighed the
widow the other evening, puckering
her mouth down to the size of shirt
button hole, as it were, you have
lived and loved. The mellifuous
profundity of your sympathetic soul
has always required that you should"
"Ah, yes, Mrs. MoWinzie' you bet'
Call me Kitty, dear; my name is
Mehitable, and the most endeared to
me always call me Fifty"
"All right, Kitty goes"
well, as 1 was about remarking,
my nature was aboriginally poetic;
away up among the embarrassed clouds
of heavens submitted artillery. My
first husband was dear genial spirit,
attuned to poetic harmony, but moth
ing could rhyme with his name. 1t
was Huntington. 1 used to weave it
into poetic verse by abbreviating it to
Tulky, but even then it never would
make smooth rhyme with any other
word. Two short years he loved and
languished, and then sank to eternal
rest as softly as though the springs of
his couch had been the Springs of
Parnassus.
beautiful! beautiful" exclaimed
Spykens, "what a rafting good obitu-
airy you must have written for him.
"Ah, me-" sighed the widow, 81
tried over year to write seven verses
suitable, and perhaps might have sue
ceeded had I not been wooed and won
by Jason Babcock. My new married
life was bright and hopeful until I
tried to merge it into poesy. The
elimination came when l composed
twenty-seven verses, each one rhym-
ing his name, the best of which were
mason, basin, face-on. Then he
closed the doors of his heart, took
his overcoat and valise, and babe me
farewell forever. I never saw or heard
of him more"
"What a miserable, narrow guage,
unappreciative wretch he must have
BEEN"
The widow gave responsive roll of
her dark gray eyes toward the sympa-
thetic Spykens, and she continued:
eyes; the rythmatic music of poet
ry did not abound in his worldly soul,
and my own longing heart almost
persisted before procured divorce
on the ground of desertion. Then 1
married my old friend and school
mate, Timothy McWinzie. He had q
soul full of sympathy, and when he
realized how my poetic soul was
crushed by the very idea of making
rhymes of his name, or any part of it,
he earnestly, yet rashly, attempted it
himself. For days and weeks he
wrote, and went about the house
muttering to himself binzle, crinzle,
dinzle, fnzle, ginzle, hinzle, and his
last words as he died in the insane
asylum, were minzle, pinzle, stinzle,
zinzle."
GLOW dramatically sad,' moaned
Spykens, as he reflected upon the
rhyming possibilities and calamities of
his own name.
"Did you ever read Thaddeus of
Washoe?" asked she, beaming her
loving eyes, full of literary intelligence,
full upon him as she gently laid her
hand on his coat sleeve.
Spykens owned up that he hadn t,
and tore himself away from her sweet
presence, pleading pressing business
engagements. The widow had money
in bank, and a whole pile of stocks,
and is looked upon as desirable
matrimonial investment, but when
Spykens reflects, musingly, upon the
sad fate of those three husbands, two
killed and one driven away by her in
fernal poetry, assisted materially, no
doubt, by her large, cold, clammy
feet, he concludes to remain single
Virginia (NeU. Enterprise.