September 3, 1891
VERMILION IRON JOURNAL—Thursday, September 3, 1891
Bob Burdette thinks marrying a widow is not the best guarantee of a life of connubial bliss. He says: “No son, don’t marry a widow. She is too calculating, and loving by arithmetic is not romantic. Real love should not have any more sense than a bottle of soda water suddenly tapped. It should sizz and fuss just like there wasn’t anything else on earth. Ah! the electric spark from the heart that has not been tampered with! The widow is alright and she is pretty—but don’t marry her. The idea of a second-handed heart appears insipid—no foam. No, son, don’t make a pawnbroker shop out of your trusting heart. If you do marry, teach your wife that you, who gained her heart under the pale glitter of the milky way, where the restless young meteor chases its love across the heavens—I say convince her that you were at the barber shop until 1 o’clock a.m. There is no memory so pleasant as the knowledge that your wife knows that you would not lie! But the widow is too fly. She will kiss her second edition at 7:45 p.m. It will be a duty kiss, not like the gush of the geysers of the rockies, but tired and lethargic. She will not coil about you like the helpless and enticing ivy, while her golden tresses wander over your collar. She will kiss you by the geometrical measurement, and say at parting: ‘George, dear, it is 7:45 o’clock. It will take you just five minutes to get a drink, twenty minutes to get shaved, and five minutes for a shine. Here is a dollar, dear. Bring back 65 cents and return at 8:15 please, as we will have bridal calls tonight.’ No boy, don’t marry a commercial college. Get a hold who thinks what you say is true, and it will take fifteen years to find out what a mistake she has made.”
There was one or two commendable features about Sunday’s game. There was a little row, but the boys settled their differences amicably and buried the hatchet; now if the Tower management had buried about three of the Tower players with that hatchet, the work would have been still more commendable.
“Discredit to Whom Discredit is Due.”
In replying to the JOURNAL’S little item of last week regarding the engagement of McGarvie’s orchestra, the Iron Home willfully misrepresents. It says “one of Tower’s influential citizens happened to be in Ely at the time and he was authorised to go and hire the band.” Now the Home knows as well as we do that it was an Ely man who came to Tower to engage music, and had he known something about attending to business instead of getting drunk he could have secured McGarvie’s orchestra. His dilatory ways and his general business methods were, however, equal to the town from which he hailed.
An Ely firm has been advertising $250 shoes in the Iron Home, of that city, for the past three weeks. We always suspected that our neighbors were needlessly extravagant.