It
was his Off Day, however. His Brain felt as if some one had played a
Mean Trick on him and substituted a Side-Order of Cauliflower. All he
could do was to lean up against his Desk and make marks and Piffle his
Time away. Between Scribbles he wrote a few Verses about, "When Willie
Came to say Good Night." It was a Sad Effort. He made it almost as Salty
as a Mother Song and filled it with Papa and Mamma and the Patter of
Baby Feet. He used Love-Light and the Evening Prayer and the
Heart-Strings and other venerable Paraphernalia. He had to commit
Infanticide to make it Weepy enough for the last Stanza. The Author
wrote this Stuff merely to Get Back at himself and see how Sloppy he
could be. He did not intend to Print it, because he was not a Vendor of
Death-Beds, and he shrank from making any violent Assault on the
Sensibilities. So he tossed the Idle Product into the Waste-Basket and
wondered if he was biginning to lose his Mind. With that Poem in his
Right Hand he could have walked into Bloomingdale and no Questions
Asked.
While he was still Backing Up and Jockeying for a Fair Start at his
Day's Work, A Friend came in and sat on the Edge of the Desk, and told
him to go right ahead and not pay any Attention.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104