I know not what I was writing,
With that thing so like a pen;
But I struck one word astounding--
Unknown to the speech of men.
It flooded the sense of my verses,
Like the break of a tinker's dam,
And I felt as one feels when the printer
Of your "infinite calm" makes clam.
It mixed up s's and x's
Like an alphabet coming to strife.
It seemed the discordant echo
Of a row between husband and wife.
It brought a perplexed meaning
Into my perfect piece,
And set the machinery creaking
As though it were scant of grease.
I have tried, but I try it vainly,
The one last word to divine
Which came from the keys of my typewriter
And so would pass as mine.
It may be some other typewriter
Will produce that word again,
It may be, but only for others--
_I_ shall write henceforth with a pen.
THE DUTCHMAN WHO HAD THE "SMALL POX"
BY HENRY P. LELAND
Very dry, indeed, is the drive from Blackberry to Squash Point,--dry
even for New Jersey; and when you remember that it's fifty miles between
the two towns, its division into five drinks seems very natural.
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