Woman's chronicle. (Little Rock, Ark.) 1888-1???, 1888-09-15

of laying up sure foundation for dyspepsia, that
always goes with picnicing. And, after the feast,
what JOY to clasp the sweet earth and, mayhap,
doze into forgetfulness But then comes the time
to 60. So, with hurried scramblings and gather
ing together of the dishes, cake, table linen, bugs
and wraps, and general marshaing of drowsy
and scattered brains, frantic rushings for the boat
and then for a seat, we are off again. Then the
ride home, with the sun high in the heavens, the
breeze like unto the breath of furnace general
air of disorder over raiment, back hair and tenn
per, and wild wishings that we were home; and
when home is reached, with limp bangs, red noses,
crushed muslins and sour temper, we seek some
hole in which to crawl away from the eyes of the
staid and sensible mankind, who staid at home
We vow a vow to forswear pcnics-until the next
time There is the picnic by rail, allurng as it
seems its swiftness is more than offset by it's dust,
its cinders and the striking likeness it bears to its
sister, the picnic by boat. Then there is the seem
ingly innocent country picnic, where with unas
suming splnt baskets and the primitive sunbonnet,
you mount the hay cart, ramble away over dusty
highways and stony byways, indulging in jotings
that much as they will improve ones liver, do
tainy not improve ones comfort, and finally reach
great hay field with its tall waving grasses on
this side and perfect encampment of inviting hay
cocks on the other. You climb over the rack,
wildly hang on to some projecting pole and, with
the grace of COW, leap to the ground. How de-
licious the hay is The air breathes sweetness and
rest What happy hills stretch away on every
side. What green Businesses do not the woods
over yonder contain. With the breathing grass
for pillow and the earth for bed, one can lie and
dream with no thought for the morrow; for to-
morrow will come in the country-if you wait long
enough. You have book; you read and loll, and
when the grasshoppers hop too near and the coun-
try-bred bugs and worms and things seek your
friendship, if you are city bred, you rise up and
howl and your dreams of sweetness and rest are
over. The merry (D farmer can have his hay
and his earthly bed with it's horrid bugs and bees
and such, ugh The lunch basket is brought forth
ere long, and after heartless slaughter of the
army of bugs that have taken up their quarters
therein, the wholesome bread and butter, tooth
some honey (woud tale of country life be COM
plete without mention of honey) the plain,
everyday cake and cookies, spiced pickles. cottage
cheese cucumbers, melons and maybe some fresh
buttermilk (think of it, We city toers y is set
about on an old shawl, and with appetites truly
rural, every one falls to. How good it is Bugs
all forgot, we eat ana eat ana are really ashamed
to acknowledge that we find fingers in lieu of forks
really not half 50 bad. Then the joy of throwing
care to the dogs in the dsposing of what is left by
simply shake of the shawl. Then search for
seat in some old tree where bugs cease from troub-
ling and you think to rest. Vain hope! Here
are ants and dreadful green things and that buga-
boo, the treetoad, that puts in appearance and
boldly calls for rain. You beat a retreat, seek
mother earth again; but here are fresh horrors;
mosquitoes surround one in swarms, the grass
hoppers are holder than ever, caterpillar takes
to exploring the back of your neck and, heavens
way in the distance you certainly discern some
COWS preparing to add their unwelcome presence
to the scene; thereupon, everyone grasps some of
the picnic paraphernalia and an ingorous retreat
begins. We reach home out of breath, tired to
death, with hats askew, red hands, despite their
covering of tan mousquetaries red faces, that the