Mr. Bluster A spring thunderstorm lacks tact. No "little cat feet" for this pompous fellow. Like an overweight buffoon, he rolls in bellowing and belching, and without so much as a "beggin' your pardon ma'am," strikes a match and blows a black cloud of cigar smoke over your party. All activity stops, and attention centers on his drenching monologue. With gusty gasps of wind he assails you with unwanted truths and unshakable dogma. You wonder whether his own hearty roaring has made him deaf, and you fear for the delicate china. At the end of the evening he rises coughing and sputtering, slaps his weary listeners on the back, and crashes out the door. As he calls his final retorts over his shoulder you survey the debris and dab a towel at the scattered spills. Imagine your surprise when morning brings a note from your blustery guest. It is written elegantly on pale green stationery with red flower buds and a hummingbird in the corner, and says, "Thank you for your hospitality. I enjoyed myself ever so much." © 1986 m. hale