While we were thus busily engaged there came an impatient tap-tap-tapping at the door, and on opening it we beheld the Crow looking more disreputably untidy than ever. He carried a large bundle of papers and a quill pen. “Ahem!” he began importantly, “I call on behalf of the Daily Whyer a new paper which I have just established, and which I am happy to say has already an enormous circulation in Why. It is very cheap (four copies for a penny), and contains an enormous amount of totally unreliable information; besides which there is a page devoted to domestic matters, highly interesting to ladies, and includes receipts for artistically furnishing your house with old tea chests and soap boxes, painted with enamel and draped with art muslin; there are also several poems weekly on the subject of ‘Baby’s Little Socks,’ which are immensely popular with some people, here is one of them,” he cried, turning to the back page of his paper, a copy of which he had with him.
“Oh! the baby’s little socks,
Darling baby’s little socks;
When the kettle’s softly steaming,
When the firelight’s glow is gleaming,
And I’m sitting idly dreaming,
Whisper gently, ‘baby’s socks.’
“Oh the darling little socks;
Baby’s baby’s little socks;
Toys that baby fingers scatter,
Little feet that pitter-patter,
Tittle tongues—but there—no matter,
Let’s get back to baby’s socks.”
“There,” he concluded triumphantly, “what do you think of that?”
“Well, I don’t wish to be rude,” I remarked, “but I certainly think it’s the greatest rubbish I’ve ever heard in all my life.”
“Rubbish!” he exclaimed, “Why all the ladies who read the Daily Whyer think it beautiful. I have to get the same gentleman to write verses like that nearly every day.”