treasures were kept. He ran his eye over it, and Mrs. Mifflin heard
him utter shrill screams of laughter.

"What on earth is it?" she asked.

"Only Archy," he said, and began to read aloud--

down in a wine vault underneath the city
two old men were sitting they were drinking booze
torn were their garments hair and beards were gritty
one had an overcoat but hardly any shoes

overhead the street cars through the streets were running
filled with happy people going home to christmas
in the adirondacks the hunters all were gunning
big ships were sailing down by the isthmus

in came a little tot for to kiss her granny
such a little totty she could scarcely tottle
saying kiss me grandpa kiss your little nanny
but the old man beaned her with a whisky bottle.

outside the snowflakes began for to flutter
far at sea the ships were sailing with the seamen
not another word did angel nanny utter
her grandsire chuckled and pledged the whisky demon

up spake the second man he was worn and weary
tears washed his face which otherwise was pasty
she loved her parents who commuted on the erie
brother im afraid you struck a trifle hasty

she came to see you all her pretty duds on
bringing christmas posies from her mothers garden
riding in the tunnel underneath the hudson
brother was it rum caused your heart to harden----

"What on earth is there funny in that?" said Mrs. Mifflin. "Poor
little lamb, I think it was terrible."

"There's more of it," cried Roger, and opened his mouth to continue.

"No more, thank you," said Helen. "There ought to be a fine for using
the meter of Love in the Valley that way. I'm going out to market so
if the bell rings you'll have to answer it."

Roger added the Archy scrapbook to Miss Titania's shelf, and went on
browsing over the volumes he had collected.

"The Nigger of the Narcissus," he said to himself, "for even if she
doesn't read the story perhaps she'll read the preface, which not
marble nor the monuments of princes will outlive. Dickens' Christmas
Stories to introduce her to Mrs. Lirriper, the queen of landladies.
Publishers tell me that Norfolk Street, Strand, is best known for the
famous literary agent that has his office there, but I wonder how many
of them know that that was where Mrs. Lirriper had her immortal
lodgings? The Noteb