Talking about old days, when I was in budding manhood I thought I was in
budding poethood as well. I wrote a little ballad for a grocery clerk,
and he was so effusive he made me blush. But the glad hand he gave me
started me on the road to ruin. By some strange freak of fortune, I
butted up against a real live versifier who had actually had his lines
printed.
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"Keep at it, my young friend," he said to me. "That's the only way to
win. The railroad magnates are the first persons to recognize real
genius. Why, before I was seventy years old, I was travelling on a
pass!"
[Illustration]
I steered away, for I reckoned if I'd have to wait till I was
three-score-and-ten before passes came my way I wouldn't need 'em then.
I walked to a neighboring village and bribed the editor of the local
paper to print a five-line poem which I had written. The poem was
entitled "To Hell," and was pretty hot stuff for a youngster. Next day
I trotted off to the paper office to preserve the original manuscript.
As I was leaving some one shouted:
[Illustration]
"That's the villiain, Jake, that makes love to your wife by writin'
poetry to her."
"Aha!" roared Jake, "that 'ar shunk! the fellow what wrote the poem
about Nell! Whoop!"
I caught a flash of a big farmer getting his gun in position. I waited
for no more, but did a flying scoot.
Great Scot! There's the stage bell. I'll have to shut down, or the
manager will be here with a club. Ting-ting!
[Illustration: Good Night!]