Chicago Weather

 To-day, fair Thisbe, winsome girl!
Strays o'er the meads where daisies blow, 
Or, ling'ring where the brooklets purl, 
Laves in the cool, refreshing flow.

To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host
Of amorous suitors in her train, 
Comes like a goddess forth to coast
Or skate upon the frozen main.

To-day, sweet posies mark her track, 
While birds sing gayly in the trees; 
To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack
Defies the piping polar breeze.

So Doris is to-day enthused
By Thisbe's soft, responsive sighs, 
And on the morrow is confused
By Thisbe's cold, repellent eyes.

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