--hearken to me, Friend!
The Editors themselves must guess their Way--
And on their Wives' and Sisters' Hints depend!

L

A Hair perhaps divides the Good from Bad;
And Bok himself a Lot of Trouble had
Before he found Stenographers were Wise--
Then, as they laughed or wept, his Soul was glad.

LI

The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines;
For her the Home-and-Mother Tale, and Scenes
Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End--
The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.

LII

The Theme once guess'd, the Tale's as good as told,
Though Dialect and Local Color mould;
This Style will last throughout Eternity,
While Women buy our Books--if Books are sold.

LIII

But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot
Which these immortal Elements has not,
You gaze TO-DAY upon a Slip, which reads:
"The Editor Regrets"--and such-like Rot.

LIV

Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use
That Subtle Touch which Editors refuse;
Better be jocund at two cents a word
Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!

LV

You know, my Friends, I've done with Purple Cows,
And long to sober Fiction paid my Vows;
Spontaneous Glee is mighty hard to Sell--
'Twas Carolyn Wells that shot across _my_ Bows.

LVI

For Stuff and Nonsense being in my Line,
As Nonsense modern Fiction I define;
But of the sort that one would care for, I
Can find but Little--and that Little's mine!

LVII

Ah, but this wholesale Satire, you may say,
Makes me pretend to be a Critic--Nay!
Rather be roasted than to roast, say I;
And I have been well roasted, by the way!

LVIII

And lately, in a Studio, a Miss
Sat smiling o'er a Book--and it was this:
"The Pipes of Pan"--she showed it me, and read,
Bidding me pay attention--it was Bliss!

LIX

Bliss Carman, who with genius absolute,
My poor satiric Logic can confute;
The only Poet who, in modern Days,
His Poems can to clinking Gold transmute!

LX

The vagrant Singer, how does he, good Lord,
Compete with such a money-making Horde
Of tinsel rhymesters that infest the Shops?
They say he makes enough to pay his Board!

LXI

Why, be our Talent truly Art, how dare
Refuse our Lucubrations everywhere?
And if it's Rot, as our Rejections hint,
God knows the things they print are Rot, for Fair!

LXII

I must abjure Dramatic Force, I must
Take the Sub-Editor's decree on Trust,
Or, lured by hope of selling something Good,
Write out my Hea