Classic Poem

On a rickety stool by a rickety door
Of the editor's room on the upper floor,

In the inner sanctum of pen and shears,
Sat a printer's boy of uncertain years

Waiting for copy; and all was still
Save the rasping scratch of a rapid quill.

The Carrier's Address was being born
In the old-time verse for the New Year's morn;

And the editor wrote like a man inspired,
But the hour was late, and the boy was tired.

Congressional Records, in binding grim,
And Patent Reports looked down on him—

Plump volumes revealing the nation's health,
And of books the editor's only wealth.

Large files of papers, dusty and old,
In unswept corners quietly told

That his paper was somehow a thing of dates,
While the plums were reserved for happier fates.

But the books, and the files, and the editor gray,
To the drowsy boy were fading away;

And the narrow room seemed a gallery grand,
With rich wrought carvings on every hand.

Beautiful volumes quaint and old,
Yellow vellums with clasps of gold,

Arranged in ebony cases rare,
Greeted his vision everywhere;

And he noted—the books in tens were placed,
And a hundred volumes each alcove graced.

Eighteen were closed with a brazen bar,
But the Nineteenth alcove was still ajar.

No parchment here; the books were new,
And the last was registered Eighty-two;

While a boy in feature resembling him,
Not ragged and soiled, but neat and trim,

Near the lower shelf, he seemed to see
Placing another marked Eighty-three;

And an angel sat in a golden chair,
Writing in characters bright and fair

With a noiseless pen; and the volume bore
On the clear white margin Eighty-four.

But the vision vanished with, “Johnny, come!
This to the foreman, and then go home.

“Wait, one line more—a merry cheer!
To each and all a blithe New-year!”

Gone were the alcoves with carving old,
And volumes rich with clasps of gold;

The Patent Reports came back again,
The whitewashed wall, the dingy den;

And the angel that sat in glory there
Was the editor gray in his old arm-chair.