To De Witt Miller.

Dear Miller: You and I despise     The cad who gathers books to sell 'em,     Be they but sixteen-mos in cloth     Or stately folios garbed in vellum.     But when one fellow has a prize     Another bibliophile is needing,     Why, then, a satisfactory trade     Is quite a laudable proceeding.     There's precedent in Bristol's case     The great collector--preacher-farmer;     And in the case of that divine     Who shrives the soul of P.D. Armour.     When from their sapient, saintly lips     The words of wisdom are not dropping,     They turn to trade--that is to say,     When they're not preaching they are swapping!     So to the flock it doth appear     That this a most conspicuous fact is:     That which these godly pastors do     Must surely be a proper practice.     Now, here's a pretty prize, indeed,     On which De Vinne's art is lavished;     Harkee! the bonny, dainty thing     Is simply waiting to be ravished!     And you have that for which I pine     As you should pine for this fair creature:     Come, now, suppose we make a trade--     You take this gem, and send the Beecher!     Surely, these graceful, tender songs     (In samite garb with lots of gilt on)     Are more to you than those dull tome?     Her pastor gave to Lizzie Tilton!