Yes, Bill 'e's going strong just now,
In London, an' employed again;
Tho' it's a fact, 'e sez, as 'ow
The doctors took out 'alf 'is brain!
Ho well, 'e won't 'ave need o' this—
'E's working at the War Office.

THE LEGEND OF THE AUTHOR

(A long way after Ingoldsby)

When Anthony Adamson first went to school
The reception he got was decidedly cool;
And, because he was utterly hopeless at games,
He was given all sorts of opprobrious names,
Which ranged the whole gamut from 'fat-head' to 'fool';
For boys as a rule, Are what nurses call 'crool,'
'Tis their natural instinct, which nobody blames,
Any more than the habits Peculiar to rabbits,
To label a duffer 'old woman' or 'muff,' or
Some name calculated to cause him to suffer.
They failed in their treatment this time, on the whole,
Since our Anthony thoroughly pitied the rôle
Of the oaf who is muddied, (For Kipling he'd studied),
However strong-hearted, broad-limbed, and warm-blooded,
Who sits in a goal, Quite deficient of soul,
And as blind to the beauties of Life as a mole.
He was rather a curious boy, was this youth,
And a bit of a prig, if you must know the truth,
And his comrades considered him weird and uncouth,
For he didn't much mind When they left him behind,
And, intent upon cricket, Went off to the wicket;
Some other less heating employment he'd find,
And, while his young playfellows fielded and batted,
This curious fat-head, Ink-fingered, hair-matted,
Would take a new pen from his pocket, and lick it,
Then into the ink-bottle thoughtfully stick it,
And, chewing the holder ('Twas fashioned of gold,
Or at least so 'twas sold By a stationer bold,
And at any rate furnished a good imitation),
In deep rumination, With much mastication,
And wonderful patience, Await inspirations;
And brilliant ideas would arrive on occasions;
When frequently followed, The pen being swallowed,
As up to his eyes in the inkpot he wallowed.

So all the day long and for half of the night
Would young Anthony Adamson nibble and write,
With extravagant feelings of joy and delight,
And it may sound absurd, But 'twas thus, as I've heard,
That he learnt to acquire the appropriate word;
And altho' composition, Which was his ambition,
At first proved a trifle untamed and refractory;
Arrived in a while At evolving a style
Which a Stevenson even might deem satisfactory.

Now when Anthony A. was as yet in his 'teens
He began to take aim at the big magazines,
With articles, verses, and little love-scenes;
And short stories he wrote, Which he sent with a note
(Which I haven't the space nor the leisure to quote),
Containing a humble request, and a hope,
And some stamps and a clearly addressed envelope.

Now a few of these got to the Editor's desk,
And he found them well-written and quite picturesque,
And he sighed to see talent like this go to waste
On what couldn't appeal to the popular taste.
For the Public, you see (With a capital P),
Doesn't care what it reads, just so long as it be
Something really exciting, however bad writing,
With wonderful heroes, And villains like Neroes,
Who, running as serials, Wearing imperials,
Revel in bloodshed and bombast and fighting.

So back to the Author his manuscript went;
Altho' sometimes a friendly old Editor sent
An encouraging letter, To say he'd do better
To lower his style to the popular level;
When Anthony proudly (Of course not out loudly,
But mentally) told him to go to the devil!

But a few of his articles never came back,
And their whereabouts no one was able to track,
For some persons who edited, (Can it be credited?)
Finding it paid them, Unduly mislaid them
(Behaviour most rare Nowadays anywhere,
And to ev'ry tradition entirely opposed),
And grew fat on the numerous stamps he enclosed.
Tho' to this I am really unable to swear,
Or at any rate haven't the courage to dare.