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

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!
O'er a stein, kind friend, I'm lookin' at you!

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.