There lived in Shanghai a few chort days ago an opulent, objectionable optimist. She had an annoying habit of warb+ ling: "It isn't raining rain to me, it's raining daffodils which was not only monotonous but was taken in bad part by those who were painfully conscious of drenched clothes, ruined hats, leaking roofs and mouldy boots. She also had some favourite remarks about the beauty of the softly falling rain, and when those did not meet with success she would turn te that original line about July showers bringing August flowers."
When reasoned with she was still obstinately optimistic, holding that the raun was really an external thing and shouldn't bother at all, unless we happened to be ricsha coolies, and even then we would get an additional premium because of the moisture. "Why," said she bravely, "you only have to step from your porte-cochere into your Rolls-Royce, and out again, and there you are." When it was represented to her that there were those obliged to ride in leaking trams, soggy ricshas, or storm-swept Fords she was surprised but opined that one's spirit should rise above such material considerations. 'What,' she asked, "is a dripping hat if only you have sunshine in your soul?" "It is precisely $27 to me," returned her indignant acquaintance and sunshine in the soul is quite impossible under the circumstances."
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.