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.