a thousand Volumes brings, you say;
Yes, but who reads the Books of Yesterday?
And this first Autumn List that brings the New
Shall take The Pit and Mrs. Wiggs away.

X

Well, let it take them! What, are we not through
With Richard Calmady and Emmy Lou?
Let Ade and Dooley guy us as they will,
Or Ella Wheeler Wilcox--heed not you.

XI

With me despise this kind of Fiction rude
That just divides the Rotten from the Good,
Where names of Poe and Dickens are forgot--
And Peace to Thackeray with his giant Brood!

XII

A Book of Limericks--Nonsense, anyhow--
Alice in Wonderland, the Purple Cow
Beside me singing on Fifth Avenue--
Ah, this were Modern Literature enow!

XIII

Some for the stories of The World; and some
Sigh for the Boston Transcript till it come;
Ah, take The Sun, and let The Herald go,
Nor heed the Yellow Journalistic scum!

XIV

Look to the blowing Advertiser--"Lo,
Booming's the way," he says, "to make Books go!
I advertise until I've drained my Purse,
And huge Editions on the Market throw."

XV

And those who made a Mint off Miss MacLane,
And those who shuddered at her Jests profane,
Alike consigned her to Oblivion,
And buried once, would not dig up again.

XVI

Anthony Hope men set their hearts upon--
Like Conan Doyle he prospered; and anon,
Remained unopened on the dusty Shelf,
Delighting us an Hour--and then was gone.

XVII

Think, in this gaudy monthly Magazine
Whose Covers are Soapette and Breakfastine,
How Author after Author with his Tale
Fills his fool Pages, and no more is seen.

XVIII

They say that now Miss Myra Kelly reaps
Rewards that Howells used to have for Keeps:
And Seton, that great Hunter of Wild Beasts
Has Coin ahead; Cash comes to him in Heaps!

XIX

I sometimes think that never Prose is read
So good as that by Advertising bred,
And every Verse Sapolian poets sing
Brings laurel wreaths once twin'd for Spenser's head.

XX

And this audacious Author, young and green
In Smart Set--surely you know whom I mean--
Ah, look upon him lightly! for who knows
But once in Lippincott's he wrote unseen!

XXI

Ah, my Beloved, write the Book that clears
TO-DAY of dreary Debt and sad Arrears;
_To-morrow!_--Why, To-morrow I may see
My Nonsense popular as Edward Lear's.

XXII

For some we've read, the month's Six Selling Best
The Bookman scored with elephantine Jest,
Have sold a half a Million in a Ye