The Printer.

How little ye ken,
Ye women and men,
By courtesy called « gentle readers, »
Of how much you owe
To the noble typo
And his army of folders and feeders!

The poet may sing
Of his lyrical string,
Of his muses, his loves, and his graces;
But ah! he'd sing small,
If he warbled at all,
Were it not for the chases and cases!

The writer of fiction,
Whose beautiful diction
Beguiles the long evenings of winter,
His mind would be left
Like a casket bereft
Of its key—if not picked by the printer!

The annalist, too,
That brings to your view
The wonderful story of ages,
Would, sure, be as dumb
As a clam or a mummy, if nobody made up his pages!

Then whoso doth read,
I beg him take heed
To the lesson these stanzas convey him,
Viz.: Now that you know
What a treasure you owe
To the printer, be certain—to pay him!

—Pacific Printer.Anon.