(With Apologies To Frederic Taber Cooper) I Well Recall (And Who Does Not) The Circus Bill-Board Hippopotamus, Whose Wide Distended Jaws For Fear And Terror Were Good Cause. That Month, That Vasty Carmine Cave, Could Munch With Ease A Nubian Slave; In Fact, The Bill-Board Hippopot- Amus Could Bolt A House And Lot! Wide Opened, That Tremendous Mouth Obscured Three-Quarters Of The South Side Of Schmidt'S Barn, And Promised Me Thrills, Shocks, Delights And Ecstasy. And Then, Alas! What Sad Non Plus The Living Hippopotamus! 'Twas But A Stupid, Sodden Lump As Thrilling As An Old Elm Stump. Its Mouth, Unreasonably Small, The Hippo Opened Not At All, Or, If It Did, It Was About As Thrilling As A Teapot Spout. * * * * * The Crimson Junk, By Doris Watt, I've Read It. Who, I Pray, Has Not? Bill Wastel, By C. Marrow. The Plaid Cowslip. And The Hocking Lee. The Fallow Field, By Sally Loo; The Rose In Chains. I've Read That Too; I've Read Them All For Promised Treat Of Thrills, Emotions, Tremblings Sweet. * * * * * The Bill-Board Hippopotamus It Was A Wild, Uprageous Cuss, The Real One? Well, Can You Recall That It Had Any Mouth At All?