smelt as no paregoric ever smelt before, but I assumed that it was probably smelling in Italian. It had one paregorical characteristic, shared with its cousins absinthe and mastika; it turned milky white when dropped into water, and like them too it had a cheering effect upon an interior comparable to that of a rosy lamp shade.
We are in London. Again feeling the need of cheering up, I inquire whether the paregoric we bought in Milan is still with us. A bottle is produced and handed to me instanter; I quickly empty the contents into a glass of water, it turns milky white, and I toss it off! . . . The bouquet doesn’t seem quite right somehow and the longer it lingers on the palate the less it reminds me of paregoric. I seize and smell the glass, the bottle. Where have I known that odor ? I seem to hear the whir of wings! Can this be death! Assuming a bold accusatory mien I demand, “What was in that bottle you gave me?” “I don’t know! Didn’t you look at it before you drank it? Let me see it! Good Heaven!! It’s the Mosquito Lotion!!! Quick, to the drug store!” I leave rapidly and seek the chemist, approaching the clerk with an air as who should say, “Ave! chemist, one who is about to die salutes you.” Hand
ing him the bottle I say “I have just swallowed the contents. Will I die here or have I time to get back to The Rubens ?” The eye of that young chemist lights up. Stomach pumps are in that gleam. lie applies the bottle to his nose with the professional touch that is the despair of the laity, shakes his head, tries the other nostril. “It isn’t corrosive sublimate,” he says. I expel a long-held breath, he takes another sniff and smiles a slow smile. “I think you’ll ’ave time to die where you like, sir. Citronella, that’s wot. Feel a bit queer, sir ?” I reply with the dignity proper to one seeing the prestige of a desperate case slipping from him, that I do. “If you feel worse sir, come back and we’ll see wot we can do for you sir. Thenk-you-sir.”
I retire and when I reach the hotel I am greeted as one is welcomed back from the dead before the novelty has worn off.
But I know now why Adam spoke as he did to God about the apple that was handed to him. And I think I know why mosquitoes seem to avoid me.
This is the first of two articles by Mr. Magonigle.
The second will appear in the succeeding issue.
PUNTA BALBIENELLO
From the loggia, perched high on this wooded promontory, one may see up and down Lake Como. The view is not exceeded in picturesque beauty by any in Europe. This beautifully located loggia is now the property of
General Ames, of Boston
We are in London. Again feeling the need of cheering up, I inquire whether the paregoric we bought in Milan is still with us. A bottle is produced and handed to me instanter; I quickly empty the contents into a glass of water, it turns milky white, and I toss it off! . . . The bouquet doesn’t seem quite right somehow and the longer it lingers on the palate the less it reminds me of paregoric. I seize and smell the glass, the bottle. Where have I known that odor ? I seem to hear the whir of wings! Can this be death! Assuming a bold accusatory mien I demand, “What was in that bottle you gave me?” “I don’t know! Didn’t you look at it before you drank it? Let me see it! Good Heaven!! It’s the Mosquito Lotion!!! Quick, to the drug store!” I leave rapidly and seek the chemist, approaching the clerk with an air as who should say, “Ave! chemist, one who is about to die salutes you.” Hand
ing him the bottle I say “I have just swallowed the contents. Will I die here or have I time to get back to The Rubens ?” The eye of that young chemist lights up. Stomach pumps are in that gleam. lie applies the bottle to his nose with the professional touch that is the despair of the laity, shakes his head, tries the other nostril. “It isn’t corrosive sublimate,” he says. I expel a long-held breath, he takes another sniff and smiles a slow smile. “I think you’ll ’ave time to die where you like, sir. Citronella, that’s wot. Feel a bit queer, sir ?” I reply with the dignity proper to one seeing the prestige of a desperate case slipping from him, that I do. “If you feel worse sir, come back and we’ll see wot we can do for you sir. Thenk-you-sir.”
I retire and when I reach the hotel I am greeted as one is welcomed back from the dead before the novelty has worn off.
But I know now why Adam spoke as he did to God about the apple that was handed to him. And I think I know why mosquitoes seem to avoid me.
This is the first of two articles by Mr. Magonigle.
The second will appear in the succeeding issue.
PUNTA BALBIENELLO
From the loggia, perched high on this wooded promontory, one may see up and down Lake Como. The view is not exceeded in picturesque beauty by any in Europe. This beautifully located loggia is now the property of
General Ames, of Boston