Rensselaer Republican, Volume 18, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 May 1886 — Col. Donan Struek at Last. [ARTICLE]

Col. Donan Struek at Last.

My exquisite Angehciana! Her face, her form! Get out, Raphael 1 Hoot, Angelo! Scat, you Titian! You may daub on canvas, and hammer and peck on rock, till your esophagusea turn to bamboo fishing poles, till your hair turns to feathers, and your nails to pruning hooks, and your best performapce will look, beside her, like a painted Jezabel beside a Madonna, like dogfennel beside a lily or an orange blossom. Her face, her face and form! Out with you, Venus of Medici! Get down in the dust and be ashamed of yourself. You are pretty good looking, but you can’t come in. Complexion as fair as the dawn of a summer morning v —lilies and roses and peach bloom combined! Eyes that drive the stars of heaven blind with envy. Lashes more gloriously silken than ever fringed the lids of Oriental houri. Hair in which ten thousand clouded sunbeams seemed 1 to nestle, darkly bright, wavy as the tresses of the tasseled corn, fine as gossamer threads, but forming a network which scores of masculine strugglers have found strong as the green withes that bound Delilah’s Samson. Her eyes, her eyes! Oh, Cupid, you little cuss, you may as well throw away your arrows, and’ break your bow. Your day is over. Go to killing frags for a living. Y*bur sharpest darts are as blunt as a kangaroo’s tail, or an average Senator’s wits. Slink off, you little gizzardsplitting imp, slink off, and shut yourself up in a cabbage-head. Her eyes, her glorious eyes! Sneak into your holes, you little twinkling stars; go into your holes and pull your holes in after you. Never, never dare to try to sparkle or glitter again. Pull the blue gingham apron of the sky over your ?ale, dim little phizzes, and keep dark. bu can shine only when her eyes are veiled. Oh, her eyes, her eyes! Mother of Judas! I am, yes, yes, Pm struck! Struck by a radiant and royal little damsel who won’t be my valentine. And then her hand I That tiny, tapering, queenly little manus. Fo/iped to do acts of love, and to render them ten-fold sweeter by coming from such a source. That fairy hand—formed to cling to a manly arm, and to nerve it by the electric touch to do deeds of deathless heroism and devotion; formed to clasp in sweetest prayer that ever angel stooped from heaven to hear. That witching hand—that index to point my soul to glojry or despair—it haunts me, haunts me, still. Oh, that I were her dainty kid, or rat or dog skin glove that I might press those finger tips forevermore. Ah-ah-ah, her waist! Sylphlike, slender. Oh, tell me not of wasp or fairy! Her waist, comely as a lime tree among the rough oaks, surpasses far in delicacy that j>f any wasp that ever hung nest upon elm—of any fairy elf that ever tripped it to the music of midnight moonbeams tricking through the dark orange groves in fair Seville or Italy. And oh-oh-oh, her foot! Her high-born, arched, ecstatifying little foot! Modesty, bashfulness, sheepfacedness, preserve me. I faint, I faint! I’m struck, oh, I’m struck! Struck by a cruel, coquettish little damsel who won’t be my valentine. The daintiest, ravishingist, enchantingist of pedals terrestiah In visions of the night, before my moonstruck eyes, float in mazy dance, a long, unceasing whirl of tipy gaiter boots. I’m bewitched, I-’m be-gaiter-booted. Oh, star of the stricken-hearted, beam softly down upon me! For I’m struck! Hurlyburly, ringed, streaked and striped state of pleasure and pain, of bliss and anguish, of uncertainty and of doubt, contradiction and truth, despondency and hope, of ecstasy and k of despair, I endure thee. For I’m struck! Oh, chambermaid of J uno! I’m struck! Stru-uck! Stru-u-ck by a remorseless, flirty, peerless young damsel, who won’t be my valentine, and the first six letters of her name are—; bnt“ I hardly think I’ll tell.—P. Donan, in Bloomington 'Eye.