["Every minute of my time during 1891 is already mortgaged. In
1892 you may count upon me."--_Mr. KIPLING to Magazine Editor,
who wished to secure him as a Contributor_.]
Oh, happy man! for whom this world of ours
Is but a ceaseless round of milk and honey,
Who use your wondrous word-compelling powers
For us in telling tales (and making money),
How you must laugh to rake the dollars in,
The publishers--how badly you must bleed them;
Your tales _are_ good, but yet, ere you begin
On more, just think of us who've got to read them.
It frightens us to hear your Ninety-One
Is mortgaged--for the prospect's _not_ inviting,
To think of all that may and will be done,
If, through the present year you ne'er cease writing!
With bated breath we ask, and humble mien--
We realise how far we come behind you--
That you will leave _one_ remnant Magazine
In which we may be sure we shall not find you.
Then will your RUDYARD name with joy be hailed,
And yours will be a never-fading glory,
If, when you're asked to write a _Light that Failed_,
You merely tell us, "That's another story."
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