The Easter girl is too sedate, we
do not care for her, and we can ever pass her by without the least demur; she
may be pretty as a pink and dressed up fit to stay, but with a maiden so demure
we cannot stop to play.
The autumn girl is tinged with
frost, she gives us quite a chill; we never did make up to her and gad! we
never will. She minds us of the barren fields and melancholy days; and so upon
the autumn maid we waste no classic lays.
The winter girl? No thank you, sir,
no part of her for us; we want no sweetheart loaded down with feathers, furs
and fuss. She’s too severely bundled up, suggesting ice and snow, and though
she is a picture fair we will not hardly go.
The summer girl! She is I.T., our
hats are off to stay; she is the real and only star that shines for us today.
She is the fishing, yachting, golf and bathing girl combined, the only pebble
on the shore, the joy of all mankind.
May
20, ‘06
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