The Great Hair Heist of the Commuter Train

A charming young lady of this city recently made a visit to friends in a neighboring town. While absent she also made a conquest, in short, made a mash as complete as though an improved lawn mower had been rolled over the victim. The sadly-afflicted swain followed his fair inamorata upon her promenades, drives and visits, and when at length she was comfortably ensconced in the homeward-bound train, what was her astonishment to find her admirer complacently beaming upon her from a neighboring seat. He was soon drawn closer by the mysterious magnet of love, and time and distance were quickly annihilated so far as the love-sick swain was concerned, by the sweet old story that he poured into rather an indifferent ear. Away the iron horse sped over the miles that were soon to separate the lady and her nearly pulverized companion. In the meantime, old Morpheus, whom time or change has failed to rob of his wooing charms, was drawing ominously near. The weary young lady laid her head upon the old charmer’s bosom, as it were, while the airy nothings that were being poured in a steady stream into her ear passed from a gentle murmur into silence. The young lady was sound asleep and the lover soon discovered that his soft words were but sweetness wasted on the desert air. He made up his mind to waste no more time in wooing so unappreciative a sweetheart, and, drawing from his vest pocket a pair of dainty scissors, he separated a tress from the braided hair and clipped it from the head of the unconscious sleeper. Just at this point the whistle sounded, and the cars were brought up standing at a wayside station. 'Good-bye,' said the would-be lover. 'I shall return by the train that will pass here in half an hour. You will forgive me that I have stolen this little souvenir while you were sleeping.' There was nothing so appalling in the tender pressure of a hand or the words of significance spoken, but the lady’s face grew a frightened expression as she made a bee-line for the toilet room at the end of the car. Hairpins were quickly pulled out and ribbons untied when down tumbled a pound more or less of long silken hair upon the floor. Great heavens! He had ruined her mother’s thirty-dollar switch. Sure enough, the desperate lover had cut through the false locks—one that he supposed to be the natural growth from his beloved’s head—and is probably now wearing it as closely as he can estimate, in the region of his heart. In the meantime, a certain fair-haired lady of this city is bewailing the disaster that has rifled her handsome and costly switch of a luxuriant lock.