THE FIRST PERSON SINGULAR.

McUmphrey's a fellow who's lengthy on lungs.

Backed up by the smoothest of ball-bearing tongues,

And his topic — himself — is worth talking about,

But he works it so much he has frazzled it out.

He never will give me my half of a chance

To chip in my own little, clever romance

In the first person singular. Yes, and they say,

He offended you, too, in a similar way.

Cousin Maud tells her illnesses, ancient and recent,

In a most minute way which is almost indecent!

Vivisecting herself, with some medical chatter,

She serves us her portions — as if on a platter,

Never noting how I am but waiting to stir

My dregs of diseases to offer to her.

And I hear ( such a joke! ) that your chronic gastritis

Stands silent forever before her nephritis.

Mrs. Henderson's Annie goes out every night,

And Bertha, before her, was simply a fright,

While Agnes broke more than the worth of her head,

And Maggie — well, some things are better unsaid.

Such manners to talk of her help — when she knows

My wife's simply aching to tell of our woes!

And I hear that she never lets you get a start

On your story of Rosy we all know by heart.

You'd hardly believe that I've heard Bunson tell

The Flea-Powder Frenchman and Razors to Sell,

The One-Legged Goose and that old What You Please —

And even, I swear it, The Crow and the Cheese.

And he sprang that old yarn of He Said‘ t was His Leg,

When you wanted to tell him Columbus's Egg,

While I wanted to tell my own whimsical tale

( Which I recently wrote ) of The Man in the Whale!