ch have heaped themselves on every
exposed surface of my library, like snowdrifts along the railroad
tracks,--blocking my literary pathway, so that I can hardly find my daily
papers.

What is the meaning of this rush into rhyming of such a multitude of
people, of all ages, from the infant phenomenon to the oldest inhabitant?

Many of my young correspondents have told me in so many words, "I want to
be famous." Now it is true that of all the short cuts to fame, in time
of peace, there is none shorter than the road paved with rhymes. Byron
woke up one morning and found himself famous. Still more notably did
Rouget de l'Isle fill the air of France, nay, the whole atmosphere of
freedom all the world over, with his name wafted on the wings of the
Marseillaise, the work of a single night. But if by fame the aspirant
means having his name brought before and kept before the public, there is
a much cheaper way of acquiring that kind of notoriety. Have your
portrait taken as a "Wonderful Cure of a Desperate Disease given up by
all the Doctors." You will get a fair likeness of yourself and a partial
biographical notice, and have the satisfaction, if not of promoting the
welfare of the community, at least that of advancing the financial
interests of the benefactor whose enterprise has given you your coveted
notoriety. If a man wants to be famous, he had much better try the
advertising doctor than the terrible editor, whose waste-basket is a maw
which is as insatiable as the temporary stomach of Jack the Giant-killer.

"You must not talk so," said Number Five. "I know you don't mean any
wrong to the true poets, but you might be thought to hold them cheap,
whereas you value the gift in others,--in yourself too, I rather think.
There are a great many women,--and some men,--who write in verse from a
natural instinct which leads them to that form of expression. If you
could peep into the portfolio of all the cultivated women among your
acquaintances, you would be surprised, I believe, to see how many of them
trust their thoughts and feelings to verse which they never think of
publishing, and much of which never meets any eyes but their own. Don't
be cruel to the sensitive natures who find a music in the harmonies of
rhythm and rhyme which soothes their own souls, if it reaches no
farther."

I was glad that Number Five spoke up as she did. Her generous instinct
came to the rescue of the poor poets just at the right moment. Not that
I