I want to write some verses on the
greenie, grassy spring; every year about this season I just have to have my
fling. If I couldn’t write spring poems and I wot you’ll think it queer, I
should feel jut out of balance the remainder of the year. But I have herein a
secret which I will impart to you: the editor is daffy on spring poems through
and through; he won’t tolerate them even given my most exalted pen, and did I
but submit them he would send them back again.; so I just resort to cunning,
send ‘em in as prose, by jing! And he print them never thinking they are verses
on the spring.
Feb.
28, ‘05
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