I should make also better acknowledgments than my thanks. But what can I do? My volume on _The Millimetric Study of the Tail of the Greek Delta, in the MSS. of the Sixth Century_, is entirely out of print; and until its re-issue by the Seaside Library I cannot forward a copy. Then my essay, "Infantile Diseases of the Earthworm" is in Berlin for translation, as it is to be issued at the same time in Germany and the United States. "The Moral Regeneration of the Rat," and "Intellectual Idiosyncracies of Twin Clams," are resting till I can get up my Sanscrit and Arabic, for I wish these researches to be exhaustive. He added two poems which I am not selfish enough to keep to myself. GOLDEN ROD O! Golden Rod! Thou garish, gorgeous gush Of passion that consumes hot summer's heart! O! yellowest yolk of love! in yearly hush I stand, awe sobered, at thy burning bush Of Glory, glossed with lustrous and illustrious art, And moan, why poor, so poor in purse and brain I am, While thou into thy trusting treasury dost seem to cram Australia, California, Sinai and Siam. And the other such a capital burlesque of the modern English School with its unintelligible parentheses: ASTER I kissed her all day on her red, red mouth (Cats, cradles and trilobites! Love is the master!) Too utterly torrid, a sweet, spicy South (Of compositae, fairest the Aster.) Stars shone on our kisses--the moon blushed warm (Ursa major or minor, Pollux and Castor!) How long the homeward! And where was my arm? (Crushed, crushed at her waist was the Aster!) No one kisses me now--my winter has come: (To ice turns fortune when once you have passed her.) I long for the angels to beckon me home (hum) (For dead, deader, deadest, the Aster!) [Illustration: PINES AND SILVER BIRCHES] Doctor Bolles has very kindly sent me one of his later humorous poems. A tragic forecast of suffragette rule which is too gloomy, as almost every woman will assure an agreeable smoker that she is "fond of the odour of a good cigar." DESCENSUS AD INFERNUM When the last cigar is smoked and the box is splintered and gone, And only the faintest whiff of the dear old smell hangs on, In the times when he's idle or thoughtful, When he's lonesome, jolly or blue, And he fingers his useless matches, What is a poor fellow to do? For the suffragettes have conquered, and their harvest is gathered in; From Texas to Maine they've voted tobacco the deadliest sin; A pipe sends you up for a year, a cigarette for two; In this female republic of virtue, What is a poor fellow to do?