The hours sped;

I went to bed,

And in my dreams the pen came up to me and said:

“Here is the list of Asses who have tried

To take up pens the master laid aside;

Look thou!” I looked, and lo!—perhaps you’ve guessed—

My name, like Abou Ben’s, led all the rest!

BOOKWORM BALLADS A LITERARY FEAST

A LITERARY FEAST

My Bookworm gave a dinner to a number of his set.

My

I was not there—I say it to my very great regret.

For they dined well, I fancy, if the menu that I saw

Was followed as implicitly as one obeys the law.

“’Twill open,” he observed to me, “with quatrains on the half.

They go down easy; then for soup”—it really made me laugh—

“The poems of old Johnny Gay”—his words were rather rough—

“They’ll do quite well, for, after all, soup’s thin and sloppy stuff.

“For fish, old Izaak Walton; and to serve as an entrée,

I think some fixed-up morsel, say from James, or from Daudet;

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