Of ink with which to scrawl,

To put a foe to flight is all

That’s needed—truly all.

But when it comes to making up

A novel in these days

You do not need a pen at all

To win the writer’s bays.

A pair of sharpened scissors and

A wealth of pure white page

Will do it if you have at hand

A pot of mucilage.

So give to me the scissors keen,

And give to me the glue,

And I will fix a novel up

That’s sure to startle you.

The good ideas have all been worked,

But while we’ve gum and paste

There shall be books and books and books

To please the public taste.

THE MASTER’S PEN—A CONFESSION

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