Song had caught a Rag-Time girls could shout
And Piano-Organs make a Din about;
But syncopated Melodies at last
Will pass away, and more shall come, no doubt.

LXXVII

And this I know: though Vaudeville delight,
Musical Comedy can bore me quite;
One act of Ibsen from the Gallery caught,
Better than Daly for a festal Night!

LXXVIII

What! out of senseless Show-Girls to evoke
A Drama? Surely, I resent the Joke!
For me, it is not Pleasure, but a Pain--
An Everlasting Bore for decent Folk.

LXXIX

What, must the Theatre Manager be paid--
Our Gold for what his Carpenter has made--
Must we pay Stars we never did Contract,
And cannot hiss at?--Oh, the sorry trade!

LXXX

Oh Thou, who dost with cool sarcastic Grin
Scorn the poor Magazine my Story's in,
Though Thou impute to ignorance my Work,
I know how bad 't will be, ere I begin!

LXXXI

Oh Thou, whose Taste demandeth silly Tales,
Damning the Author when he Tries and Fails,
Let us toss up to see which one is Worse--
Thy Fault or mine--Which is it, Heads or Tails?

* * * * *

LXXXII

As, for his Luncheon Hour, away had slipp'd
The Editor, his Office-Boy I tipp'd,
And once again before the Sacred Desk
I stood, surrounded by much Manuscript.

LXXXIII

Manuscripts of all Sizes, great and small,
Upon that Desk, in Numbers to appall!
And Some looked very interesting; some
I saw no Sign of Merit in, at all.

LXXXIV

Said one among them--"Surely not in vain
My Author has exhausted all his Brain
In writing me, to be rejected here--
I'd hate to have to be sent back again!"

LXXXV

Then said a Second--"Ne'er a Girl or Boy
Such Stuff as I am really could enjoy:
Yet He who wrote me, when I am return'd,
Will me with Curse and bitter Wrath destroy!"

LXXXVI

After a literary Silence spake
A Manuscript of Henry James's make;
"They sneer at me for being so occult:
But Kipling's found such Stuff is going to Take!"

LXXXVII

Whereat some one of the typewritten Lot--
I think it was Cy Brady's--waxing hot--
"All this of Shop and Patter--Tell me then,
Who buys--Who reads--the Stuff that boils _my_ Pot?"

LXXXVIII

"Why," said another, "Some there are who tell
Of one who threatens he will toss to Hell
The luckless Tales he marr'd in making--Pish!
He's a blamed Fool, Any Old Thing will sell!"

LXXXIX

"Well," murmur'd one, "Let whoso write or buy,
My words wit