"Will you be so kind as to pass the capon and a little more of
the Burgundy?"

—Yours.
Dear Mr. Davis:
And shall I grow as fat as you, my friend in old New York?
Eat capon? Ever pull with pride the plutocratic cork?
My ship rides in the offing with a windless idle sail;
I have not hit the pace that counts; I have not hit the nail.
Yet, tho' I'm lean, and tho' you eat and drink the stuff that fats,
God bless you with your Burgundy — I stick to Wiener-Blatz!
Out here amid the wind-blown corn we eat the festive swine;
We eat him with the hair on, and we don't know much of wine.
The capon that shall fatten me has not yet felt the knife;
He hasn't made his crow before the footlights of this life.
He's still a mystic riddle in an egg as yet unlaid,
And his mother hasn't even cackled yet; I am afraid!
My Burgundy — if ever I should drink the stuff by chance—
Is still a latent dampness in the sunny slopes of France,
A thrill among the vineyard roots, a dream of sun and dew!
But I am glad to hear, my friend, it is not so with you.
For tho' I'm forced to thinner founts than those that cheer and fat you,
God send you wine!
PROST!
O'er a stein, kind friend, I'm lookin' at you!
Sincerely,

Jno. G. Neihardt

P. S. I will bother you with a story or two soon. I am working on a book manuscript which interests me quite a good deal.—


J. N.