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!