September Mourn.

September is as full of promise as a mortgage, the marriage vows, a teething rash on a cross-cut saw, a debtor's prison, a begging letter, a legging bettor, or a centipede in a two-legged race at the snakes' and adders' picnic. Every year, at that period of terrestrial consternation, when the Dipper is dippy and the Great Bare wishes he were less so, and the Astronomical Society comes down to earth till the weather breaks, and Orion gets soaked off the coast of Ireland—proving that “the quality of Murphy is not strained,” then we know that it is September, because it would have to be unless it were not, which is improbable. But September, although credited by the credulous with intent to spring and otherwise convert the gifts of Nature to its own use, is really an impostor of the first water—or the early rains. For although posing as a premature mosquito bite on the face of the earth, a sun-beam on its beam ends, or a sun-bath with the plug out, it seldom has the spring goods in stock when the customer calls its bluff. In the first place it should be prosecuted for making a false declaration as to its age, for it is only the seventh son of the union of Time and Tide, and not the ninth wonder of the year; for if “septum” does not mean “seven” then all good children do not, despite popular belief, go to heaven. In reality, September, is only July in an advanced state of premeditation, and has no real claim to act as doorkeeper at the sun baths, custodian of the spring board, or Winter in a straw hat.