Evening star. [volume] (Washington, D.C.) 1854-1972, 1910-07-17

quite a Wnole lot more neat at lHe
summer resort than to partake Of food
while attired in the simple habiliments
OF the sleeping room. But he makes
a great point of that eating in your
pajamas or nighties." and. of course,
you permit him to rave.
And look at the good things to eat. the
home market things, that they miss.
he goes on pantingly. They beat it out
o town, away from their comfortable.
breeze-swept homes, at time of the
year when the markets are just a-riot-
ing with bully things to eat; all the new
fresh and fine vegetables. all the new
berries and fruits, spring meats. and
that kind Of gear. They never get
smell of these things-nary a smell. They
don't know what good market victuals
mooch away to these summer resort
hotels. and what do they get? What.
just canned stuff. that's all; canned junk.
Do they ever get nice fresh red rasp-
cantaloupes like they could have got at
home IL they'd had the sense to stay.
home? Do they ever get the kind o.
corn on the cob. and string beans. and
all that sort of market provender, at
their punkerino summer resort hotels.
that they could have got il they'd stayed
at home?'
You vouchsafe no answer to that.
either. You know there's no use. Yet.
you know all the time that he's speaking
aperture In his tent You have demon
strated to your own complete satisfac-
ton, not once. but frequently, that you
can get fine red raspberries and corn
on the cob and cantalcupe and string
beans and the real candy kind OF meats
at summer resort hotels of a character
that you never. even with the expendi-
ture of your entire monthly DanK roll
ever contrived to cop out when you
had to stay at home during the heated
oil In
with some summer hotels where the
eats are SO rich and royal and rare ana
splendiferous and make-your-moutn
water-if- you-t Of EN- that you hate
your home when the memory OF those
eats fingers around in the crevices and
crannes of your mind.
And thus he does wheeze and Wheeze.
He never convinces anybody exceps
some other tick-around-the-ctty-d during
summer person who was born with
peeve of that kind, but he keeps right
at 1t.
But-but-along about this season, when
he sees the main body Of the bunch
picking up their grips and directing tnelr
footprints in the general direction OF the
station. there to grab trains for summer
resort places which they know about OF
which they've read about in the iufny
booklets-'long bout now. as we say, he
begins to cave and to crawfish
His feet. especially the heels OF ms
shoes, begin to sink in the city's asphalt
and his vertebrae begin to curl up on that
stick-around-in-townt thing.
He tumbleS and losses around on his
hot night couch and whacks the everlast-
ing stufing out Of his pillows and gets up
he can't sleep. and pulls the shades up
and then pulls 'em down again. and gosh
durns the heat, and souses himself In the
cold tub in the middle OF the night; and
the newspaper ads Of the summer resorts
begin to be sort Of a magnet for his
wistful. not to say desireful gaze.
The sun streams down and bakes the city
streets, and the heat of his office is like
unto that Of the stokehOle of man-O' war
under forced draught during her trial trip
when the builders want to get an addi-
tional .O0O9 of a knot out of her. and the
electric fan doesn't alleviate matters any
except to give him stopped-up pain In
his ears. and then he looks out o the Of
fee window and sees the hacks and the
taxicabs yanking the getawayers through
the streets toward the railroad station.
and the spine Of him begins to puttyize-
oh. yes it does. neighbors!
-.
And he notices that most all the fellers
Of the regular gang are missing from
their regular beat. and that the dolls he
knows. all bedight in their glad whitley
clothes, aren't on their usual patrols any
more and the fiocks of post cards with
bee-yu-tiful fine cool pictures OF sum-
mer resorts on 'em begin to be handed
him by the grinning postman every
morning: and then he begins to frame
some way whereby he can stink out of
town without exciting the ridicule and
derision of the gang to which he has
made all of those the-beauty-of-not-go
away-in-summer cracks.
And then he spends a couple Of days.
like as not. telling all of the bunch, when
he meets 'em. that the doctor has i'm
peratively and imperiouslv ordered him
to beat it out Of town for his hay fever
or his asthma or his catarrh or his ma
laria or his hOuSemaid's kin-nee, or
something, and
And then he losses the pajams and
the collars and things into the suit case.
and he f1yeth from the wrath Of the orb
called old Sol by the reporter boys doing
the daily weather story, and he has a
doosuva time wherever he happens to
go, and when he comes back he waits
till the following summers heat comes
around, and then
Why. then he goes through all the
whole performance again of telling 'em
and us what blithering idiots we are for
even thinking or dreaming OF hopping
out of town in the summer. when the
summer really is the best time to stay
in the city, un'stan'
CLARENCE L. CULLEN.