Of The Weather

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Of The Weather

Now is the hot term fairly inaugurated, the influence of the comet has passed away—the rains have “dried up,” the season is settled, and we are in for it, in all its glowing extremities.

In the street the sun beats down in one concentrated glare, beneath which white men wince and wilt. Old Sol has begun in earnest. There is no more coquetry about the matter—no more cool days, and wet days and warm days—but henceforth, for a while, it will be genuinely and incontrovertibly hot.

Now are Spring and Summer Raglans discarded, and white-gossamer fabrics take their place. Now do callow swells exult in the glories of snowy pants and the shiniest of patent leather pedal protectives. Now does the light and airy straw usurp the place of the unyielding stove-pipe. Now do obdurately reticent moustaches start and sprout beneath the genial influence of the time, and the sultry morning finds Jenkins smiling through his suds, perspiring, yet content.

The crinolines, too, are not without their consolations. Through the sultry afternoons, while male bipeds are buried in codfish, sugars and ledgers, Ada Violetta can enjoy the luxuries of darkened rooms and the last “Harper.” In the evening she becomes spasmodically benevolent, and devours or dispenses fragrant ices and rich, red berries of ecstatic flavor, in behalf of “our dearly beloved brethren,” the Hottentots of North 50th street. Apropos, we once heard a young gent of melancholy aspect mutter with an imbecile smile, after his sixth gin-smash, that he considered it as indisputable that women gradually changed their feminine nature as July drew near, and while retaining a distracting resemblance to humanity, became, in fact, little better than leeches inveigling innocent youths of small salaries into unheard—of extravagancies by stationing themselves behind tables full of nothing, and eternally crying “give, give.” Our young friend attempted to quote Scripture in support of his novel theory, but failed ingloriously in the rash attempt, and was silent. We remember well with what indignation we rose to repel the monstrous assertion, but we reflected upon his youth and inexperience—and forgave him.

Now do the ice cream venders who have been grumbling for half a year put on fresh smiles, and become the most meek and amiable of men. Now do wooly-headed waiters rush frantically about with “shilling-plates,” and upset each other with the greatest equanimity. Now do slick bar-keepers compound mysterious fancy-drinks, and beam benignantly upon parched guzzlers. Now does ye butcher man tear his hair at the diminished consumption of beef. Now does the oyster man, once so important and jolly, hide his diminished head and devote his remaining energy to clams. Now are the watering-places in full blast and the churches gradually thinning out. Now the Summer is upon us, and the Ice Man is monarch of all he surveys. Selah.