Hank Schmitpickle and his latest wife from Chicago sailed on the steamship Minnehaha last week to spend the season in the British capital. The Schmitpickles will occupy the villa at No. 714 Cottagecheese Place, Blitheringham Park, near Speakeasy Towers, on the Old Kent Road, Bayswater, across from Shoreditch—God save the King!
Mercedes Cauliflower is summering at Narragansett Pier, and her fiance, Mr. Peter Cuckoobird, is dancing attendance upon her. It will be remembered that Mercedes is the daughter and heiress of Jacob Cauliflower, the millionaire manufacturer of boneless tripe, which has become quite a fad in Society since the Beef Trust got chesty. Peter Cuckoobird is a rising young brick-layer on his father’s side, but on account of the fortune left him by his mother, he is now butterflying through life in a gasolene barouche with diamond settings in the tires.
Hank Dobbs and his daughter, Crystaline, sailed on the Oceanic yesterday for the Riviera. Before the steamship pulled out Hank admitted that he didn’t know whether the Riviera was a city or a new kind of cheese, but if money could do the trick he intended to know the truth.
Mr. and Mrs. James Shine von Shine were divorced yesterday at the home of the bride’s parents in Newport. The ceremony was very simple but expensive to the ex-husband. Considerable alimony changed hands.
The private cottage of Mrs. Offulrich Swellswell at Bar Harbor has been beautifully decorated in honor of the approaching divorce of their daughter, Gladys, from her husband, Percy Skiddoo. Percy is the well-known manufacturer of the reversible two-step so much used by Society.
Cards are all out for a divorce in the family of the Von Guzzles, but owing to a typographical error in the cards it is impossible to say whether it is the old man or the son. Both employ blonde typewriters.
Uncle Peter is one of the gamest little chunks of humanity that ever looked the world in the eye, but when he heard the edict put forth by Doctor Osler the old man went overboard with a splash.
He was under water a long time.
He thought the Bogey Man had him for sure.
Uncle Peter felt that it would no longer be possible for him to pass a drug store without some young fellow rushing out with a handkerchief full of chloroform and yelling, “Here, you old chestnut! here’s where you get it in the nose!”
In the dark watches of the night Uncle Peter used to wake up covered with cold perspiration, because he had dreamed that Doc Osler was pounding him on the bald spot with a baseball bat after having poured hair dye all over his breakfast food.
At last Uncle Peter got so nervous I advised him to write to the Doctor.
“Ask him if he won’t commute your sentence because you live in the country and are a commuter,” I suggested.