THE RAVEN UP-TO-DATE.

Last night while I pondered dreary, grouchy, sore, and limp and leary, O’er the dope in my apartments, far up on the thirteenth floor; As I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some bill collector,” thought I, “rapping at my chamber door— Only that and nothing more.” Ah, distinctly I remember, I was thinking of September, And the finish of the league race—what the future had in store; And I started prophesying where the pennant would be flying, Till at last I gave up trying, feeling very sad and sore, For the dope was so uncertain that I gave up sad and sore, Grumbling slowly: “Nevermore.” As I sat there, nearly bug house, longing for a near-by jug house, Once again I heard the tapping, tapping at my chamber door; So I oped it, shrinking craven, wishing for some happy haven, When, behold! there flapped a Raven, stalking in across the floor— Stalking Edgar Allen Poeish, right across my rugless floor. Ach, du Leiber! I was sore. “Raven!” cried I, “why the devil have you come here? On the level, I thought Mr. Poe had written you would enter nevermore. What has brought you, you intriguer, with that look so keen and eager? Speak up there, you old bush leaguer; why have you returned, you bore? State your trouble and then skip, sir; leave me quickly, I implore!” Quoth the Raven: “What’s the score?”