ind so oft in overwhelming homes,

No substance on a Whatman surface placed,
In polished leather and in tooling cased,

The gilded edges dazzling to the eye
And flaunting all their charms so wantonly.

These book-men, when they catalogue their books,
Call them in truth _edition de luxe_.

That's all they have, most of 'em, just plain shape,
With less pure wine than any unripe grape.

But tomes that travel on their "looks" indeed
Are only good for those who do not read;

And, like most people clad in garments grand,
Seem rather heavy for the average hand.

WISE AND OTHERWISE

_NAPOLINI'S ERROR_

PIETRO NAPOLINI DI VENDETTA PASQUARELLE
Deserted balmy Italy, the land that loved him well,
And sailed for soft America, of wealth the very fount,
To earn sufficient dollars there to make himself a count.
Alas for poor Pietro! he arrived in winter-time,
And marvelled at the poet who observed in tripping rhyme
How this New World was genial, and a sunny sort of clime.

No chance had he for music that's developed by a crank,
No chance had he at sculpture, nor a penny in the bank.
The pea-nut trade was languid, and for him too full of risk;
He thought the work on railways for his blood was rather brisk.
The sole profession left him to assuage his stomach's woe,
It struck him in meandering the city to and fro,
Was surely that of shovelling away the rich man's snow.

And then P. Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle
Sought out a city thoroughfare, the swellest of the swell.
He stole a shovel, and he found a broom he thought would do,
Then rang the massive front-door bell of Stuyvesant Depew.
"I wanta shov' da snow," he said, when there at last appeared
Fitzjohn Augustus Higgins, who in Birmingham was reared,
A man by all in low estate much hated and much feared.

"Go wi," said Fitz, with gesture bold. "Yer cahn't do nothink ere,
Yer bloomin', hugly furriner!" he added, with a sneer.
"Hi thinks as 'ow you dagoes is the cuss o' this 'ere land,
With wuthy citizens like me 'most starved on every 'and.
Hi vows hif I'd me wi at all hi'd order hout a troop,
Hand send the bloomin' lot o' yer 'ead over 'eels in soup.
Git hout, yer nahsty grabber yer; hewacuate the stoop."

Then when the snow had melted off, Fitzjohn Augustus went
And humbly asked his master for two dollars that he'd spent
In paying Napolini di Vendetta Pasquarelle