Mr. Foss secured an interest in the Lynn _Union_, and it was while engaged in publishing that newspaper that he made the discovery that he could be a "funny man." The man having charge of the funny column left suddenly, and Mr. Foss decided to see what he could do in the way of writing something humorous to fill the column. He had never done anything of this kind before, and was surprised and pleased to have some of his readers congratulate him on his new "funny man." He continued to write for this column and for a long time his identity was unknown, he being referred to simply as the "Lynn _Union_ funny man." His ability finally attracted the attention of Wolcott Balestier, the editor of _Tit-Bits_, who secured Mr. Foss's services for that paper. Before long he became connected with _Puck_, _Judge_, and several other New York periodicals, including the New York _Sun_. Mr. Foss's first book was published in 1894, and was entitled _Back Country Poems_ and has passed through several editions. _Whiffs from Wild Meadows_ issued in 1896 has been fully as successful. Later books are _Dreams in Homespun_, _Songs of War and Peace_, _Songs of the Average Man_. [Illustration: SAM WALTER FOSS] He had charge of the Public Library at Somerville, Massachusetts, and his influence in library matters extended all over New England. His poems are marked by simplicity. Most of his songs are written in New England dialect which he has used with unsurpassed effect. But this poetry was always of the simplest kind, of the appealing nature which reaches the heart. Of his work and his aim, he said in his first volume: "It is not the greatest singer Who tries the loftiest themes, He is the true joy bringer Who tells his simplest dreams, He is the greatest poet Who will renounce all art And take his heart and show it To any other heart; Who writes no learned riddle, But sings his simplest rune, Takes his heart-strings for a fiddle, And plays his easiest tune." Mr. Foss _always_ had to recite the following poem when he called at Breezy Meadows THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNKHEAD I'm a lunkhead, an' I know it; 'taint no use to squirm an' talk, I'm a gump an' I'm a lunkhead, I'm a lummux, I'm a gawk, An' I make this interduction so that all you folks can see An' understan' the natur' of the critter thet I be. I allus wobble w'en I walk, my j'ints are out er gear, My arms go flappin' through the air, jest like an el'phunt's ear; An' when the womern speaks to me I stutter an' grow weak, A big frog rises in my throat, an' he won't let me speak. Wall, that's the kind er thing I be; but in our neighborhood Lived young Joe Craig an' young Jim Stump an' Hiram Underwood. We growed like corn in the same hill, jest like four sep'rit stalks; For they wuz lunkheads, jest like me, an' lummuxes and gawks.