His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head,
His eyes on his dusty old table, with different documents spread:
There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitals
topped,
And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped;
There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and
zephyrs,
And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers;
There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two,
And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it,
or who?
There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluous
school,
And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was a fool;
There were several long resolutions, with names telling whom they were by,
Canonizing some harmless old brother who had done nothing worse than to
die;
There were traps on that table to catch him, and serpents to sting and to
smite him;
There were gift enterprises to sell him, and bitters attempting to bite
him;
There were long staring "ads" from the city, and money with never a one,
Which added, "Please give this insertion, and send in your bill when
you're _done_;"
There were letters from organizations--their meetings, their wants, and
their laws--
Which said, "Can you print this announcement for the good of our glorious
cause?"
There were tickets inviting his presence to festivals, parties, and shows,
Wrapped in notes with "Please give us a notice" demurely slipped in at the
close;
In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er its ink-spattered trash,
There was nothing it did not encounter, excepting perhaps it was cash.

The Editor dreamily pondered on several ponderous things.
On different lines of action, and the pulling of different strings;
Upon some equivocal doings, and some unequivocal duns;
On how few of his numerous patrons were quietly prompt-paying ones;
On friends who subscribed "just to help him," and wordy encouragement
lent,
And had given him plenty of counsel, but never had paid him a cent;
On vinegar, kind-hearted people were feeding him every hour,
Who saw not the work they were doing, but wondered that "printers are
sour:"
On several intelligent townsmen, whose kindness was so without stint
That they kept an eye out on his business, and told him just what he
should print;
On men who had r