The readers of the _Boston Evening Transcript_
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the _Boston Evening Transcript_,
I mount the stairs and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
And I say, “Cousin Harriet, here is the _Boston Evening Transcript_.”