A Mistaken Calling

He is lying on the pavement

     Just outside the printer’s door;

With his head all mutilated,

     And his fair locks dyed with gore.

“What’s the matter with the fellow?”

     Cries the sympathizing crowd,

As he’s pitched into the wagon,

     With the ding-dong clanging loud.

“Can’t yer see?” exclaimed the newsboy,

     Who is up to everything,

“Dat ere slip his nibs is clinchin’

     Is er poem fer next spring.”

Nov. 3, 1890

Pub. in the

Camb. Press