"You're a great Hiram, you are."
And then rising from his chair and walking to my "poet's corner," the
magician selected two volumes.
"There," said he, handing me the _Departmental Ditties_. "You'll find the
lines you tried to fool me with at the foot of page thirteen. Look."
I looked, and there lay that vile Sleary sentiment, in all the majesty of
type, staring me in the eyes.
"And here," added my visitor, opening _Alice in the Looking-Glass_--"here
is the poem that to your mind holds all the philosophy of life:
"'Come to my arms, my beamish boy,
He chortled in his joy.'"
I blushed and trembled. Blushed that he should discover the weakness of my
taste, trembled at his power.
"I don't blame you for coloring," said the magician. "But I thought you
said the Gutenberg was made up of men of brains? Do you think you could
stay on the rolls a month if they were aware that your poetic ideals are
summed up in the 'Jabberwock' and 'Sleary's Fits'?"
"My taste might be far worse," I answered.
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