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Show I ST. VALENTINE r- H St. Valentine, as ,wc conceive him, H was one of the greatest men who H never existed. He was all henrt. H He had his sleeve cut extra wide to H accommodate his heart; his thoughts H were punctuated by Ins heart-throbs', H he was partial to what the literary H reviewers call " novels of heart in- H tere.it." Enlargement of the heart H killed him. Somewhere in Arcadia, the land of promises, pretty girls, M matinees, and sentimental lyrics, there PJ stands a lovely tomb, all decorated Pj round the edge with paper lace and PJ blue forget-me-nots. This is the tomb PJ of St. Valentine, a monument to PJ' which all the world makes pilgrim- M age now' and then for all the world's H a lover. On the steps of that dainty M shrine certain rosy messenger boys of PJ the Cupid's District Telegraph scr- Pfl vice loiter to whiff the surreptitious M cigarette; confirmed bachelors quote M Keats to unconfirmed spinsters, PJ the schoolboy notices for the first B time that girls, however undesirable PJ as an institution, have individual al- PJ lurcments. There the economist PJ holds somebody's hand ami argues U that two can live cheaper than one PJ, the milkman and the milkmaid say PJ nothing and make a great to-do about M it, and Prince Fortunatus decides to M marry far ihcueath his station. Ah, M well! it is a wonderful shadow that PJ his tomb casts, and a universal rime PJ it bears; the epitaph to the dear H Saint deceased: H "The rose is rec' The violet's blue; J Sugar is sweet H And so arc you!" PJ 'Friend, if you make a trip to Ar- PJ cadia, do not fail to visit the tomb PJ of that miraculous King of Hearts, PJ who- made the foolish wise, and vice versa, to the unending benefit of the PJ human race. Collicr'f. |