["One cannot receive news of victories every day."--_German Official
Newspaper._]
True, as you say, there is no cause for grieving,
When in your pages no triumphs appear,
But, gentle Sir, when you talk of "receiving,"
Are you not wandering out of your sphere?
Yours not to wait for a foe's retrogression,
Yours not to heed the belligerents' fate;
You're higher up in the writer's profession;
Perish "receiving," 'tis yours to create.
What though you dabble in newspaper diction,
Common reporters deserve your disdain;
You should be ranked with the masters of fiction,
Weaving your victories out of your brain.
Stories are needed, and you must supply 'em;
That should be easy; so gifted a man
Surely can compass a triumph _per diem_,
Seeing the truth is no part of your plan.
Even although inspiration is flagging,
Let not your output grow markedly less;
Fiction gives precedents (plenty) for dragging
Out an old yarn in a different dress.
But, if your brain is too weary for spinning
Words to re-tell our habitual rout,
Don't blame the army that hasn't been winning;
Frankly confess that you feel written out.
* * * * *
"London Lady (twenties) well-educated, fair linguist, deeply
interested in psychology and the things that matter in life, considered
clever by inmates, but not brilliant, would greatly appreciate
broadminded and friendly companion to share walks."
_T. P.'s Weekly._
We must remember that the inmates' standard would not be a very high
one.
* * * * *