"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head,
"Tarry awhile," says Slow;
"Put on the pot," says Greedy Gut,
"We'll sup before we go."

These lines the observant student of nursery literature will perceive
are satirical. Was there ever a poet who was not satirical? How could he
be a genius and not be able to point out the folly he sees around him
and comment upon it. In this case, the poor poet,--who lived in a
roseate cloud-land of his own, not desiring such mundane things as sleep
and food, was undoubtedly troubled and plagued to death by having
brothers and sisters who were of the earth, earthy; and who never
neglected on opportunity to laugh at his poems; to squirt water on him
when in the heavenly mood, his eyes in frenzy rolling; to put spiders
down his back; to stick pins in his elbows when writing; or upset his
inkstand.

Fine natures always have a deal to bear, in this world, from the coarse,
unfeeling natures that cannot appreciate their delicacy; and this one
had more than his share.

Many a time has he been goaded to frenzy by the cruel sneers and jokes
of those who should have been proud of his talents; and rushed with
wild-eyed eagerness down to the gentle frog pond, intending there to
bury his sorrows beneath its glassy surface. He saw in imagination the
grief-stricken faces of those cruel ones as they gazed upon his cold
corpus, with his damp locks clinging to his noble brow, the green slimy
weeds clasped in his pale hands, and the mud oozing from his pockets and
the legs of his pants; and he gloried in the remorse and anguish they