NOVEMBER 1, 18 —.

Wind north-east; weather getting cross and cool;

Wife and the children gone to Sunday-school.

And I — not very well — am home again,

Holding a conversation with my pen.

And all that I can make it say to me

Is Wealth, wealth, wealth! how much I hear and see!

Strange, how, on human brains, sixteen times o'er,

Is stamped and carved the magic word of More!

Some several thousands to my credit lie

In a small bank on Wall Street, handy by;

But I can n't help contriving what I'd do

If I possessed the whole Sub-Treasury too;

Or if I had ( to take a modest tone )

A million million dollars, all my own!

The subject took so strong a growth in me,

I overtalked the same, last night, at tea;

And so my oldest daughter ( who can rhyme,

And strikes some notes that with her father's chime )

Became with that same foolishness possessed,

So much so that it would not let her rest,

But hung about her bedside all the night

And brought its capabilities in sight.

So much so that she threw it into verse

As bad as that her father writes — or worse.

And then, with some unconscious girlish grace,

And blushes chasing all about her face,

She, in a way I've learned to understand

Quite accident'ly, slipped it in my hand.

It was not made in public to appear,

But, privately, I'll paste it right in here:

Our dinner is at noon; our supper, six,

We have not yet learned all the city tricks.