Oliver Herford

To The Publisher! - Drink!
Let his virtue be shown
In the Good Works of others
If not in his own.

Here's to the Typewriter!
Health to her type!
Whether blond or brunette
Or budding or ripe.
If she be the right type
Be she buxom or slight,
When she doesn't type wrong
She is sure to typewrite.

We drink your health, O Waiter!
And may you be preserved
From old age, gout, or sudden death!--
At least till supper's served.

Not squirrels in the park alone
His love and winter-kindness own.
When Literary Fledglings try
Their wings, in first attempt to fly,
They flutter down to Franklin Square,
Where Howells in his "Easy Chair"
Like good Saint Francis scatters crumbs
Of Hope, to each small bird that comes.
And since Bread, cast upon the main,
Must to the giver come again,
I tender now, long overtime,
This humble Crumb of grateful rhyme.

I'm sorry William Taft is out
Of Politics; without a doubt
Of all the Presidential crew
He was the easiest to do.

In Winter when the air is chill,
    And winds are blowing loud and shrill,
All snug and warm I sit and purr,
    Wrapped in my overcoat of fur.

In Summer quite the other way,
    I find it very hot all day,
But Human People do not care,
    For they have nice thin clothes to wear.

And does it not seem hard to you,
    When all the world is like a stew,
And I am much too warm to purr,
    I have to wear my Winter Fur?