cross the sea,
The author I like best is Mr. Me.

A "first" of Elia filled my soul with joy.
A Meredith de luxe held no alloy.
And when I found _Pendennis_ in the parts
A throb of gladness stirred my heart of hearts.
A richly pictured set of Avon's bard
Upon my liking bounded pretty hard;
But none brought out that cloying sense of glee
That came from that first book by Mr. Me.

And so I beg you join me in the toast
To him that I confess I love the most.
He does not always do his level best,
But no one lives who can survive that test.
His work is queer, and some folks call it bad,
And some aver 'tis but a passing fad;
But I don't care, the fact remains that he
Has won my admiration--dear old Me.

_THEIR PENS_

THE poet pens his odes and sonnets spruce
With quills plucked from the ordinary goose,
While critics write their sharp incisive lines
With quills snatched from the fretful porcupines.

_AN UNSOLVED PROBLEM_

IF Bacon wrote those grand inspiring lines
At which alternately man weeps and laughs,
Who was it penned those chirographic vines
We know these times as Shakespeare's autographs?

_THE BIBLIOPHILE'S THREAT_

IF some one does not speedily indite
A volume that is worthy of my shelf,
I'll have to buy materials and write
A novel and some poetry myself.

_MY TREASURES_

MY library o'erflows with treasures rare:
Of "Dickens' firsts," a full, unbroken set;
And in a little nooklet off the stair
The whole edition of my novelette.

_A POET'S FAD_

HE writes bad verse on principle,
E'en though it does not sell.
He thinks the plan original--
So many folk write well.

_THE POET UNDONE_

HE was a poet born, but unkind Fate
Once doomed him for his verses to be paid,
Whereon he left the poet-born's estate
And wrote like one who'd happened to be made.

_A WANING MUSE_

"WHY art thou sad, Poeticus?" said I.
So blue was he I feared he would not speak.
"Alas! I've lost my grip," was his reply--
"I've writ but forty poems, sir, this week."

_MODESTY_

"WHAT hundred books are best, think you?" I said,
Addressing one devoted to the pen.
He thought a moment, then he raised his head:
"I hardly know--I've written only ten."

_MY LORD THE BOOK_

A BOOK is an aristocrat:
'Tis pampered--lives in st