When I was a youngster just going to school (The pitiful tale that one tells!) My brain ran a-rippling with ballads by Kipling, I worshipped the earlier Wells. I often was seen with the @3Strand Magazine@1, I adored Lancelots, Bediveres, Gobbled Stevenson's fable and Arthur's "Round Table" And swore by the "Three Musketeers." When I was as green, yes, as green as the gage That pouts from a jam I adore, I wore out "Tom Sawyer" till scarcely a page But fluttered away to the floor. I thought Howard Pyle, in his "Wonder Clock" style, Could hardly be beat by the best; The thrills that I had in "A Modern Aladdin" Supplied the infallible test. When I was untrained and unversed in the arts I loved Andrew Lang, Edward Lear; Bought numberless tomes of the great "Sherlock Holmes" And envied his brilliant career; In the "Tale of Two Cities" the thrill that is pity's Conveyed how superb it may still be. I thought "Kenilworth" was a joy upon earth, And I simply was dazzled by "Trilby." When I was a sprig and my standards were low, Uncritical, unautocratic, I used to exult in Jack London and Poe, Which I read in bed, bathroom and attic. Alas, that's the truth of my terrible youth. Such the books I thought way above par. Gee, I thought they were great, in my juvenile state. . . . @3And I still am convinced that they are.@1 |