[THE IMP OF THE TELEPHONE.]
BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.
VII.—THE POETRY BOOK, AND THE END.
The Imp then arranged the wires so that the Poetry Book could recite itself to Jimmieboy, after which he went back to his office to see who it was that had been ringing the bell.
"My first poem," said a soft silvery voice from the top shelf, towards which Jimmieboy immediately directed his attention—"my first poem is a perfect gem. I have never seen anything anywhere that could by any possibility be finer than it is, unless it be in my new book, which contains millions of better ones. It is called, 'To a Street Lamp,' and goes this way:
"You seem quite plain, old Lamp, to men,
Yet 'twould be hard to say
What we should do without you when
Night follows on the day;
"And while your lumination seems
Much less than that of sun,
I truly think but for your beams
We would be much undone.
"And who knows, Lamp, but to some wight,
Too small for me to see,
You are just such a wondrous sight
As old Sol is to me!"
"Isn't that simply lovely?" said the soft silvery voice when the poem was completed.
"Yes; but I don't think it's very funny," said Jimmieboy. "I like to laugh, you know, and I couldn't laugh at that."
"Oh!" said the silvery voice, with a slight tinge of disappointment in it. "You want fun, do you? Well, how do you like this? I think it is the funniest thing ever written, except others by the same author: