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Checklist of the Parasites of Fishes of Latvia

Not really about Latvian fishes

The unmolested Mr. Hartwell

DEAR READERS. – I am pleased to report my body and spirit have not been torn asunder by Mother Nature’s fury. Mighty Hermione has passed, and our – my – City has been no worse for wear.

Now that the Tempest has made its way up the Puritan Coast and onto the endless peninsulae of the Dominion of Canada, I must report that certain news-gathering corporations have, shall I say, over-estimated the impact of Hermione’s wrath. My fair tenement has had nary a mortar-brick displaced, nor have any vanity mirrors been tossed to the streets. This morning I ran into Mr. Charles Reekes Darrow, who was whistling as is his wont on a Sabbath, and we commented upon the apparent timidity of Hermione. Mr. Darrow blamed the whole episode on the Austro-Hungarians, who had a vested interest in the export of concrete horse-hitchers. I listened politely but I do not put the blame squarely on the oft-perfidious Habsbergs. I am inclined to blame the New York Harbinger, the Estimable Dispatch‘s main competitor.

It is the Harbinger that sent many a cub reporter to the nooks and corners of our City to report on the most mundane of wind-gusts and ferry-capsizes. On Friday evening, the offices of the Harbinger could barely keep their dispassionate composure as Shirt-Sleeve Factory No. 6 went up in flames; as it happened, not by Hermione but by an Irishman’s cigar placed carelessly upon a pile of Polish child workers. Of course, the debased Harbinger failed to correct their asumption. By Saturday morning, it was clear that the 116 regrettable deaths at the Factory were the product of a drunken Celt. I wish I could report even one death attributed to Hermione; alas I cannot.

My esteemed Dispatch made some reference to Hermione’s torrent, but our great editor Mr. Milton Flaffbabbler led with stories of the Phillipine and Iberian races who deign to thwart our American Empire. Mr. Flaffbabbler has a canny sense of the real issues of the day.

I am most gay to report that the City’s minority and immigrant species held their base instincts in check. My tenement abuts a Russian thoroughfare and none of those half-Mongoloids took advantage of nature’s caprice. My dearest friend Mr. Ronald Symington Moose, who lives near the Galician district, also relates that his local swarthies did not go beyond their station in life. Perhaps Anglo-German-Protestant civilizing has not been in vain.

It is on this note, dear readers, that I bid adieu and board a ship to the Congo to report on the hardships suffered by Belgian colonists.

Mr. Hartwell is a celebrated columnist of the Manhattan Estimable Dispatch, and we wish him well in darkest Africa. 

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