Four-Foot Shelf

 'Come, see,' said he, 'my four-foot shelf,
 A forty volume row;
And every one I wrote myself,
 But that, of course, you know.
'
I stared, I searched a memory dim,
 For though an author too,
Somehow I'd never heard of him,--
 None of his books I knew.


Said I: 'I'd like to borrow one,
 Fond memories to recall.
'
Said he: 'I'll gladly give you some,
 And autograph them all.
'
And so a dozen books he brought,
 And signed tome after tome:
Of course I thanked him quite a lot,
 And took them home.


So now I have to read his work,
 Though dry as dust it be;
No portion of it may I shirk,
 Lest he should question me.

This tale is true,--although it looks
 To me a bloody shame,
A guy could father forty books,
 yet no one know his name.

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