TO CORRESPONDENTS

My Postman, though I fear thy tread, And tremble as thy foot draws nearer, 'Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread, MY mortal foe is much severer,

- The Unknown Correspondent, who, With undefatigable pen, And nothing in the world to do, Perplexes literary men.

From Pentecost and Ponder's End They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah, The people of the Shetlands send No inconsiderable quota; They write for AUTOGRAPHS; in vain, In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora, They write that Allan Quatermain Is not at all the book for Brora.

They write to say that 'they have met This writer 'at a garden party, And though' this writer 'MAY forget,' THEIR recollection's keen and hearty. 'And will you praise in your reviews A novel by our distant cousin?' These letters from Provincial Blues Assail us daily by the dozen!

O friends with time upon your hands, O friends with postage-stamps in plenty, O poets out of many lands, O youths and maidens under twenty, Seek out some other wretch to bore, Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours, And leave me to my dusty lore And my unprofitable labours!