To the Woman Who Never Shows the Heat Dear Mrs. Cool:
I am unwillingly constrained to admit that you are a delightful thing to look at during the season of stickiness and stringiness. Your perfectly curled hair is tribute to your permanent waver your complexion was cither inspire ed by an artist in durable cosmetics or was the gift of an unduly generous Providence; your nose has a dull finish for which most of us would barter our hopes of a happy hereafter; and you never do anything so vulgar as to perspire.
For these and other reasons you have the air of a dewy rosebud preserved preternaturally fresh throughout the fiercenesses of Shanghai heat. For these and other reasons my admiration is wrung from me, but for these and other reasons I hate you with a heat before which the torridest of August days feels refreshing.
What right have you to flaunt the miracle of an unwilted personality, to remain serenely unconscious of melting suns and muggy atmospheres while the rest of us mop our brows, and vainly powder our glistening noses? Why this unfair discrimination? Why shouldn't you feel the heat, I should like to know? Perhaps you do feel it. I hope for the worst. But more than that, why don't you show some effect of the mounting mercury? Is it wise to vaunt this immunity? If you had' only the rudimentary glimmering of tact you would at least wield a fan moments, or pretend to wipe your forehead.
Take warning from these words lest your outraged sisters arm
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.