Page 72 - Poetry-Books

The Contributor’s Dream

We scribblers are human, and sometimes cross;
Besides, I’d been up all night;
And I thought with gloom on the probable fate
Of the story I couldn’t write.

I thought, and nodded, and fell asleep,
With my head on that spotless page;
And I dreamed a dream of the editor
As he’ll be in the Golden Age.

I dreamed that I knocked at the editor’s door,
And at once there did appear
A beautiful damsel, robed in black,
With a pen behind her ear.

She bowed and smiled as she took my card,
And she did not ask me to wait,
But opened the door of the inner room
Where the editor sat in state.

The editor rose with a courtly grace,
And brought me an easy-chair;
Then he begged to see my manuscript,
And he read it then and there.

He read it with interest, every word;
He laughed at its humor keen;
And the tears rolled down his intelligent face
At every pathetic scene.

And when he had ended, he grasped my hand,
And said: “I cannot express
Our warm and sincerely heartfelt thanks
For the favor of this MS.

“But if I may venture to speak the word”
(Here he fell upon my neck),
“Perhaps you’ll permit us the small return
Of a thousand-dollar check.

~ 70 ~