shame;
And all that is good for business, helps to boom my little game."

But when I sit down to reason, think to stand upon my nerve,
Meditate on portly leisure with a balance in reserve,
In he comes with his "Decadence!" like a fly in my preserve.

I can see myself, O Burgess, half a century from now,
Laid to rest among the ghostly, like a broken toy somehow,
All my lovely songs and ballads vanished with your "Purple Cow."

But I will return some morning, though I know it will be hard,
To Cornhill among the bookstalls, and surprise some minor bard,
Turning over their old rubbish for the treasures we discard.

I shall warn him like a critic, creeping when his back is turned,
"Ink and paper, dead and done with; Doxey spent what Doxey earned;
Poems doubtless are immortal, where a poem can be discerned!"

How his face will go to ashes, when he feels his empty purse!
How he'll wish his vogue were greater; plume himself it is no worse;
Then go bother the dear public with his puny little verse!

Don't I know how he will pose it; patronize our larger time;
"Poor old Browning; little Kipling; what attempts they made to rhyme!"
Just let me have half an hour with the nincompoop sublime!

I will haunt him like a purpose, I will ghost him like a fear;
When he least expects my presence, I'll be mumbling in his ear,
"O Le Lupe lived in Frisco, and I lived in Boston here.

"Never heard of us? Good heavens, can you never have been told
Of the _Larks_ we used to publish, and the _Chap-Books_ that we sold?
Where are all our first edition?" I feel damp and full of mould.

A GUEST AT THE LUDLOW

BY BILL NYE

We are stopping quietly here, taking our meals in our rooms mostly, and
going out very little indeed. When I say we, I use the term editorially.

We notice first of all the great contrast between this and other hotels,
and in several instances this one is superior. In the first place, there
is a sense of absolute security when one goes to sleep here that can not
be felt at a popular hotel, where burglars secrete themselves in the
wardrobe during the day and steal one's pantaloons and contents at
night. This is one of the compensations of life in prison.

Here the burglars go to bed at the hour that the rest of us do. We all
retire at the same time, and a murderer can not sit up any later at
night than the smaller or unknown criminal can.

You can get to Ludlow S