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One particular poem—composed on a rainy, dreary day, when all nature wept and sobbed and old maids could sit in the house with their hair down and be sure there would be no callers—was a poem on love. It wasn't such a poem as is usually written, telling of the joyousness of the sentiment and the delights of rambles with Cupid, but it was a satire—a datnp, Chilly malarial satire. It was meant to reduce the market price of love by $0 per cent. It was meant to warn •he young man of twenty and scare the old man of seventy. It took up the sentiment of love in sixteen Verses and showed beyond cavil that there was a heap more money in raising squabs or running a boarding house. So far as Miss Abigail went that poem was a success. She enveloped, put in return postage and mailed it to a magazine.
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