ne edition of his work put out,
No man who's sane can ever really doubt

That products of his brain and pen can live
Alone for that which they may haply give!
And though on vellum stiff the work appears,
It cannot live throughout the after-years,

Unless it has within its leaves some hint
Of something further than the style of print
And paper--give me Omar on mere waste,
I'll choose it rather than some "bookish taste,"

Expended on a flimsy, whimsey tale,
Put out to catch a whimsey, flimsy sale.
I'd choose my Omar print on grocer's wraps
Before the vellum books of "bookish" chaps.

_A CONFESSION_

MY epic verse, my pet production, which I deemed
Sufficient to advance me to the highest peak
Of difficult Parnassus, goal of which I've dreamed
For many a weary year, came back to me last week.
The Editor I cursed, that he should stand between
My dear ambition and my scarcely dearer self;
Whose unappreciation forced to blush unseen
My one dear book, to gather dust upon my shelf.
That night in sleep an Angel fair came to my side,
And in her hand she held a scroll; in lines of flame
The name of him I'd cursed was writ; and when I cried,
"What portent this?" the rare celestial dame
Replied:
"Read here, O Ingrate base, the name of him thou'st cursed.
The very man of all men who should be the first
Thy love and lasting gratitude to know, since he
Still leaves the path Parnassian open unto thee--
A path which thou with halting rhyme, most ill composed,
Against thyself hast sought to keep forever closed.
_Read thou thy lines again!_"
Ah! bitter was the cup.
I read, withdrew the curse--and tore the epic up.

_THE EDITION DE LOOKS_

How very close to truth these bookish men
Can be when in their catalogues they pen

The words descriptive of the wares they hold
To tempt the book-man with his purse of gold!

For instance, they have Dryden--splendid set--
Which some poor wight would part with wealth to get.

'Tis richly bound, its edges gilded--but--
Hard fate--as Dryden well deserves--_uncut_!

For who these days would think to buy the screed
Of dull old dusty Dryden just to read?

In faith if his editions had been kept
Amongst the rarities he'd ne'er have crept!

And then those pompous, overwhelming tomes
You f