O' The Thing Just As he'd Have Them, Finds What He Thinks Fit, Is Blind To What Missuits Him, Just Records What Makes His Case Out, Quite Ignores The Rest. It 'S A History Of The World, The Lizard Age, The Early Indians, The Old Country War, Jerome Napoleon, Whatsoever You Please, All As The Author Wants It. Such A Scribe You Pay And Praise For Putting Life In Stones, Fire Into Fog, Making The Past Your World. There'S Plenty Of 'How Did You Contrive To Grasp 'The Thread Which Led You Through This Labyrinth? 'How Build Such Solid Fabric Out Of Air? 'How On So Slight Foundation Found This Tale? 'Biography, Narrative?' Or, In Other Words, 'How Many Lies Did It Require To Make 'The Portly Truth You Here Present Us With?' 'Oh,' Quoth The Penman, Purring At Your Praise, ''T Is Fancy All; No Particle Of Fact: 'I Was Poor And Threadbare When I Wrote That Book ''Bliss In The Golden City.' I, At Thebes? 'We Writers Paint Out Of Our Heads, You See!' 'Ah, The More Wonderful The Gift In You, 'The More Creativeness And Godlike Craft!' But I, Do I Present You With My Piece, It 'S 'What, Sludge? When My Sainted Mother Spoke 'The Verses Lady Jane Grey Last Composed 'About The Rosy Bower In The Seventh Heaven 'Where She And Queen Elizabeth Kept House, 'You Made The Raps? 'T Was Your Invention That? 'Cur, Slave And Devil!' Eight Fingers And Two Thumbs Stuck In My Throat! Well, If The Marks Seem Gone 'T Is Because Stiffish Cock-Tail, Taken In Time, Is Better For A Bruise Than Arnica. There, Sir! I Bear No Malice: 'T Isn't In Me. I Know I Acted Wrongly: Still, I 've Tried What I Could Say In My Excuse, To Show The Devil 'S Not All Devil . . . I Don't Pretend, He's Angel, Much Less Such A Gentleman As You, Sir! And I've Lost You, Lost Myself, Lost All-L-L-L- . . . No Are You In Earnest, Sir? O Yours, Sir, Is An Angel'S Part! I Know What Prejudice Prompts, And What's The Common Course Men Take To Soothe Their Ruffled Self-Conceit: Only You Rise Superior To It All! No, Sir, It Don't Hurt Much; It 'S Speaking Long That Makes Me Choke A Little: The Marks Will Go! What? Twenty V-Notes More, And Outfit Too, And Not A Word To Greeley? One One Kiss O' The Hand That Saves Me! You'll Not Let Me Speak, I Well Know, And I 've Lost The Right, Too True! But I Must Say, Sir, If She Hears (She Does) Your Sainted . . . Well, Sir, Be It So! That's, I Think, My Bed-Room Candle. Good-Night!!Bl-L-Less You, Sir. R-R-R, You Brute-Beast And Blackguard! Cowardly Scamp! I Only Wish I Dared Burn Down The House And Spoil Your Sniggering! Oh What, You're The Man You 're Satisfied At Last? You 've Found Out Sludge? We 'll See That Presently: My Turn, Sir, Next! I Too Can Tell My Story: Brute, Do You Hear? You Throttled Your Sainted Mother, That Old Hag, In Just Such A Fit Of Passion: No, It Was . . . To Get This House Of Hers, And Many A Note Like These. . . I'll Pocket Them, However . . . Five, Ten, Fifteen . . . Ay, You Gave Her Throat The Twist, Or Else You Poisoned Her! Confound The Cuss! Where Was My Head? I Ought To Have Prophesied He 'll Die In A Year And Join Her: That 'S The Way. I Don't Know Where My Head Is: What Had I Done? How Did It All Go? I Said He Poisoned Her, And Hoped he'd Have Grace Given Him To Repent, Whereon He Picked This Quarrel, Bullied Me And Called Me Cheat: I Thrashed Him, Who Could Help? He Howled For Mercy, Prayed Me On His Knees To Cut And Run And Save Him From Disgrace: I Do So, And Once Off, He Slanders Me. An End Of Him! Begin Elsewhere Anew! Boston'S A Hole, The Herring-Pond Is Wide, V-Notes Are Something, Liberty Still More. Beside, Is He The Only Fool In The World?