POETRY
EDITOR—"This isn't poetry, my dear man; it's merely an escape of gas."
WOULD-BE CONTRIBUTOR—"Ah, I see! Something wrong with the meter."
Your poem must eternal be,
Dear sir, it can not fail,
For 'tis incomprehensible,
And wants both head and tail.
—S.T. Coleridge.
"What is poetry of motion?"
"The kind that's always going from one editor to another."
They were dancing the one-step. The music was heavenly. The swish of her silken skirts was divine. The fragrance of the roses upon her bosom was really intoxicating.
"Ah," she smiled, sweetly, with an arch look up into his face, "you remind me of one of Whitman's poems."
A sudden dizziness seemed to seize him. It was as if he were floating in a dream. When he had sufficiently gained his breath he spoke:
"Which one?"
"Oh, any one," she replied. "The feet are mixed in all of them."—Everybody's.