I was staying at a London hotel a short time ago and had occasion to write a letter in the public reading-room. Sitting down to one of the writing-tables and opening the portfolio I found that a previous occupant had left in it an unfinished letter which, with all necessary apologies, I here transcribe in full:
My darling Harry,—I am fading like a flower deprived of its natural nourishment without you, my darling, my own little sniperpop——
Now what, in the name of Dr. Samuel Johnson, can a "sniperpop" be?
How shall I name you? Darling, dove,
Partridge (or any other bird)
Are not the names I seek, my love;
I want just one caressing word,
One word which, whether old or new,
Shall prove my depth of love for you.
Without it all my power is gone,
Without my own I feebly fade:
In vain I turn the lexicon,
The word I want is not yet made.
Must I entreat, to ease my pain,
Divine Philology in vain?
Ah, little nowadays it boots
To imitate primeval man;
Our Aryan ancestors had roots
With which to formulate their plan.
They used them all—they had their fun—
And left us not a single one.
Yet, oh my Harry, something tells
Your own she may, she must succeed—
What's this? Yes, yes, ring out the bells;
From grief's dark thunder-cloud I'm freed.
No longer shall I droop or drop—
Eureka, "little Sniperpop."