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Chicago Weather

 To-day, fair Thisbe, winsome girl!
Strays o'er the meads where daisies blow, 
Or, ling'ring where the brooklets purl, 
Laves in the cool, refreshing flow.
To-morrow, Thisbe, with a host Of amorous suitors in her train, Comes like a goddess forth to coast Or skate upon the frozen main.
To-day, sweet posies mark her track, While birds sing gayly in the trees; To-morrow morn, her sealskin sack Defies the piping polar breeze.
So Doris is to-day enthused By Thisbe's soft, responsive sighs, And on the morrow is confused By Thisbe's cold, repellent eyes.

by Eugene Field
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