Being a writer I receive
Sweet screeds from folk of every land;
Some are so weird you’d scarce believe,
And some quite hard to understand:
But as a conscientious man
I type my thanks to all I can.
So when I got a foreign scrawl
That spider-webbed across the page,
Said I: “This is the worst of all;
No doubt a child of tender age
Has written it, so I’ll be kind,
And send an answer to her mind.
Promptly I typed a nice reply
And thought that it would be the end,
But in due course confused was I
To get a letter signed: Your Friend;
And with it, full of girlish grace,
A snapshot of a winsome face.
“I am afraid,” she wrote to me,
“That you must have bees sure surprised
At my poor penmanship. . . You see,
My arms and legs are paralyzed:
With pen held in a sort of sheath
I do my writing with my teeth.”
Though sadness followed my amaze,
And pity too, I must confess
The look that lit her laughing gaze
Was one of sunny happiness. . . .
Oh spirit of a heroine!
Your smile so tender, so divine,
I pray, may never cease to shine.