Cold Comfort.

Dear reader, unless you are one of those frozen products of humanity, boasting a body of chilled steel and the heart of a sea-lion, who love to battle with the elephants of nature, who scorn the frozen mitt, the icy optic and the cold shoulder, and who wot not of the cool reception nor the chilly greeting—unless you are one of those ice-breakers who titillate the matutinal tub with a harpoon or an alpenstock—unless you are a frosted caramel, a white frost or a chunk of chilled cheese, you will have observed that winter has put the merry party in the ice-box and slammed the door.

Assuming, in the absence of evidence to the contrary, that you are one of those whose blood stream refuses to visit the outlying suburbs of the physiology, whose cuticular quilting smacks of the goose's underclothing, and whose sniffing-set glows like an illuminated address or the beacon at the cross-roads, it is to you these congruities of cold comfort are conveyed.