They are no longer flowers, but
specimens, each bud and blossom pleading in vain for life, as ruthless
fingers coolly dissect them to discover whether they are poly or
mollyandria. And what an ignoramus you must be, if you do not know that
a balloon-vine is a _Cardiospernum Halicactum_. The "feast" on these
occasions is that "of reason" alone, encyclopedias and dictionaries
being all the nourishment required, although a stray bottle here and
there might hint at "the flow" of a little something beside "soul."
Then there are the Good Templars' picnics, where "water, cold water for
me, for me," is supposed to be the sentiment of every heart, mixing the
beverage sometimes, however, with a little innocent tea, or coffee; and
the Masonic festivals, where pretty white aprons and silver fringes,
shining amid green dells and vales, present quite a picturesque and
imposing appearance; and the Fenians, looking sometimes greener than the
haunts they are seeking.
Then every distinct and individual Sunday-school in the city has a
picnic, which it would be well to attend, if you are anxious to see the
diversities and eccentricities of youthful appetites fearfully
illustrated.
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