BALLADE DES ÉCRIVAINS DU TEMPS JADIS.

In what Limbo, or Paradis, Hides the bulge of his brainful brow Ponderous Howells, W. D.? Where vade Warner and Aldrich now, Boyesen, knowful of why and how, Skandine skald of the soulful sneer— Light his pen as a sub-soil plow—? But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer? Where now drivels the droolful Bok? Whither doth Harding Davis fare? And Riley, best of the rhyming flock? Where is the georgic Garland, where Harte, tamed cub of the grizzly bear? Ben Hur Wallace, whose style was queer? Quipful Clemens, that jester rare? But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer? Where hies Hawthorne, last of the name? Gamesome Stockton, where gambols he, With lass and tiger, his fee to fame? And Bunner, airful of Arcadie? Whither doth Brander Matthews flee? Slim, sad Gilder, sweet sonneteer, Darling and pride of his Century? But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer? Sought ye, gentles, a year and day Tidings of these, ye still must hear The doleful burden of this poor lay, But where is the froth of yestreen’s beer? G. F. W.