Transplanted from the higher altitude at the foot of the Rockies to the level of Lake Michigan, I think nothing about Chicago struck him more forcibly than the harshness of its variable summer climate.  Scarcely a week went by that his column did not contain some reference in paragraph or verse to its fickle alarming changes.  He had not enough warm blood back of that large gray face to rejoice when the mercury dropped in an hour, as it often did, from 88 or 90 degrees to 56 or 60 degrees.  Such changes, which came with the whirl of the weather vane, as the wind shifted from its long sweep over the prairies, all aquiver with the heat, to a strong blow over hundreds of miles of water whose temperature in dog days never rose above 60 degrees, provoked from him verses such as these, written in the respective months they celebrate in the year 1884: 

  CHICAGO IN JULY

  The white-capp’d waves of Michigan break
    On the beach where the jacksnipes croon—­
  The breeze sweeps in from the purple lake
    And tempers the heat of noon: 
  In yonder bush, where the berries grow,
    The Peewee tunefully sings,
  While hither and thither the people go,
    Attending to matters and things.

  There is cool for all in the busy town—­
    For the girls in their sealskin sacques—­
  For the dainty dudes idling up and down,
    With overcoats on their backs;
  And the horse-cars lurch and the people run
    And the bell at the bridgeway rings—­
  But never perspires a single one,
    Attending to matters and things.

  What though the shivering mercury wanes—­
    What though the air be chill? 
  The beauteous Chloe never complains
    As she roams by the purpling rill;
  And the torn-tit coos to its gentle mate,
    As Chloe industriously swings
  With Daphnis, her beau, on the old front gate,
    Attending to matters and things.

  When the moon comes up, and her cold, pale light
    Coquettes with the freezing streams,
  What care these twain for the wintry night,
    Since Chloe is wrapt in dreams,
  And Daphnis utters no plaint of woe
    O’er his fair jack full on kings,
  But smiles that fortune should bless him so,
    Attending to matters and things.

  CHICAGO IN AUGUST

  When Cynthia’s father homeward brought
    An India mull for her to wear,
  How were her handsome features fraught
    With radiant smiles beyond compare! 
  And to her bosom Cynthia strained
    Her pa with many a fond caress—­
  And ere another week had waned
    That mull was made into a dress.

  And Cynthia blooming like a rose
    Which any swain might joy to cull,
  Cried “How I’ll paralyze the beaux
    When I put on my India mull!”
  Now let the heat of August day
    Be what it may—­I’ll not complain—­
  I’ll wear the mull, and put away
    This old and faded-out delaine!