The editor of the Boston Farmer, wearied with the toils of the field, turns poet, and comes down upon our December number in the following epigram. It is evident he is no judge of “picture books.”
Mr. Graham, now don’t you be vexed,
But own up to the insinuation;
You’ve given us six pages of text,
And fifty of mere illustration!
You shall not run the teeth of your poetical harrow over us in that fashion, Mr. Farmer—so here’s at you!
’Tis plain you’re no judge of a baby,
Or ladies that we put much cost on;
Although we’ve no doubt that you may be
A very good farmer—for Boston.