ce of my library, like snowdrifts along the railroad
tracks,--blocking my literary pathway, so that I can hardly find my
daily papers.

What is the meaning of this rush into rhyming of such a multitude
of people, of all ages, from the infant phenomenon to the oldest
inhabitant?

Many of my young correspondents have told me in so many words, "I want
to be famous." Now it is true that of all the short cuts to fame, in
time of peace, there is none shorter than the road paved with rhymes.
Byron woke up one morning and found himself famous. Still more notably
did Rouget de l'Isle fill the air of France, nay, the whole atmosphere
of freedom all the world over, with his name wafted on the wings of the
Marseillaise, the work of a single night. But if by fame the aspirant
means having his name brought before and kept before the public, there
is a much cheaper way of acquiring that kind of notoriety. Have your
portrait taken as a "Wonderful Cure of a Desperate Disease given up by
all the Doctors." You will get a fair likeness of yourself and a partial
biographical notice, and have the satisfaction, if not of promoting
the welfare of the community, at least that of advancing the financial
interests of the benefactor whose enterprise has given you your coveted
notoriety. If a man wants to be famous, he had much better try the
advertising doctor than the terrible editor, whose waste-basket is a
maw which is as insatiable as the temporary stomach of Jack the
Giant-killer.

"You must not talk so," said Number Five. "I know you don't mean any
wrong to the true poets, but you might be thought to hold them cheap,
whereas you value the gift in others,--in yourself too, I rather think.
There are a great many women,--and some men,--who write in verse from
a natural instinct which leads them to that form of expression. If you
could peep into the portfolio of all the cultivated women among your
acquaintances, you would be surprised, I believe, to see how many of
them trust their thoughts and feelings to verse which they never think
of publishing, and much of which never meets any eyes but their
own. Don't be cruel to the sensitive natures who find a music in the
harmonies of rhythm and rhyme which soothes their own souls, if it
reaches no farther."

I was glad that Number Five spoke up as she did. Her generous instinct
came to the rescue of the poor poets just at the right moment. Not that
I meant to deal roughly with them, but the "poet