Postlude

The book is finished! With a sigh,

My pen upon the desk I lay;

The weary task is o'er, and I

Am off upon a holiday,

To Paris, lovely Paris, where

I have a little ventr’ - a-terre.

And tho’ my verses may be weak,

And call for your severest strictures,

The illustrations are unique,—

I really never saw such pictures!

( At times, in my unthinking way,

I almost hope I never may. )