The Rock Island Argus. (Rock Island, Ill.) 1877-1885, 1883-08-13
A POETIC WIDOW.
The Sweet responsive Echo of Soul to Soul.

From Nevada Paper.
Our friend Spykens has made mash
to use the language of the worldly He
incidently became acquainted with the
Widow McWinzie at a church social last
fall. She has 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
esthetIc rhyme; the sweet responsive
echo of soul to soul.
Dear Mr. Spykens." sighed the wi
dow the other evening, pickering her
mouth down to the size of shirt button
hole, as it were, you have lived and
loved. The mellifluous profundity of
your sympathetic soul has always required
that Won should.
An, YES, Mrs. McWinzie, you bet, /"
fCall me Kitty dear; my name is Me
hitable, and those most dear to me call
me Hitty."
well, as l was about remarking. my
nature was aboriginally poetic, away up
among the embarrassed clouds of Heavens
sublimated artillery. My first husband
was a dear, genial spirit, attuned to
poetic harmony but nothing could rhyme
with his name. 1t was Tulkington. l
used to weave it into poetic verse by alb
breylating it into Tulky, but even then
it never would make a 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 Spy
kens What rafting good obituary
you must have written for himl'
"Ah, me, sighed the widow, Il tried
over year to write seven verses suitable
and perhaps might. have succeeded had /
not been wooed and won by Jason Bah
cock. My new married life was bright
and hopeful until tried to merge in the
poesy The elimination came when l
composed twenty-seven verses. each one
rhyming his name the best of which
were mason, basin, face-on. Then he
closed the doors of his heart, took bis
overcoat and valise, and babe me fare
well forever. l never saw or heard of
him more"
"What miserable, narrow gauge,
uuappreciative wretch he must have
been"
The widow gave responsive roll of
her dark gray eyes toward the sympathe-
tic Spykens, as she continued:
Yes, the rhymatic music of poetry
did not abound in his worldly SOUL and
my own longing heart almost persisted
before | procured divorce on the ground
of desertion. Then | married my old
friend and school-mate, Timpothy Nc
Winnie. He had soul full of sympathy
and when he realized how my poetic
nature 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 binzie, crinzie dinZie, fnzie,
ginzie, and his last words as he died in
the insane asylum were minZie, pinzIe,
stinzie, zinzic"
How dramatically sad" moaned
Spykens, as he reflected upon the rhy-
ming possibilities and calmaties of his
own name.
Did you ever read Thaddeus of Was
hoe!' asked she, beaming her loving
eyes full of literary intelligence. full
upon him, as she gently laid her hand on
his coatsleeve'
Spykens owned up that he hadn't and
tore himself away from her sweet pres
ence, pleading pressing business engage
mcuts. The widow had money in the
bank and whole pile of stocks, and is
ihnEpH trip iol
Investment, but when Spyk9ns reflects
musingly upon the sad fate of those
three husbands, two killed and one
driven away by her internal poetry, as
sisted materially, no doubt, by her
large, cold, clammy feet, he concluded to
remain single