When I play chess with other boys,
It’s one of all my dearest joys
To hear them rant and storm and tear,
If by my skilfulness and care
They should the losers be.
Sometimes I am not feeling well,
Since I the “honest truth” must tell,
And though you would not think they’d dare,
I’m walloped well. Gosh! how I swear!
If they should checkmate me.
In an early issue a gem of an epigram appeared, and straightway epigrams
became the mode—we all affected them. The vogue was hard while it
lasted. A dozen times a day I was assured over the wireless telephone
(Nature’s) that Bill or Mike or another had a “bird” for the next issue.
Here are some of them.
This one was the “first offence.” If you like it, it is mine; but of
course if any one is going to get mad about it, then another fellow, one
of the dead ones, was its author. Is not its sentiment exquisite?