Volume 107 — A PAINFUL POSITION.

It is my base biographer I've haunted all day long. He's writing out my character, And every word is wrong. With the wrong vices I'm indued, And the wrong virtues too; My motives he has misconstrued As only he could do. I read the copy sheet by sheet As it issues from his pen, And this, this travesty complete Will be my doom from men! I've wrestled hard with psychic force— It is in vain, in vain! His nerves were ever tough and coarse, Impervious his brain. Ah, could a merely psychic spell Ignite an earthly match! Or could a hand impalpable Material "copy" snatch! I'm as incompetent as mist The enemy to rack. Ah, if a spiritual fist An earthly eye could black! A paper-weight it lies below, It cannot be dispersed! The publisher will never know Who read that copy first! His gliding pen, for all my hate, Has never gone awry; "All rights reserved," they'll calmly state, O'er me. And here am I!