Mrs. Seymour Fentolin

It was Mrs. Seymour Fentolin who stood there, a little dog under each arm; a large hat, gay with flowers, upon her head. She wore patent shoes with high heels, and white silk stockings. She had, indeed, the air of being dressed for luncheon at a fashionable restaurant. From a story in The Popular Magazine.

The lauded lilies of the field Who toil not--neither do they spin, The palm sartorial must yield To Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

A hat, French heels, white stockings, dogs! Not even Solomon could win The championship for showy togs From Mrs. Seymour Fentolin.

The two extremes in décolleté, Of ballroom and of bathing beach, Here meet in a bewildering way And mingle all the charms of each.

I am no social butter-in, I do not crave to meet her bunch, But where does Mrs. Fentolin, If one might venture--take her lunch?

And might one ask that peerless dame, Without appearing impolite, Is Seymour really her first name, And has the printer spelt it right?