Shakespeare and Dickens were particular favorites of Mr. Ward's, one of his last purchases of books being a new set of each of these authors. For Byron also, as a poet, he entertained a high regard; but perhaps the literary character whom he loved the most was Oliver Wendell Holmes to whom on his seventy-fifth birthday he addressed an affectionate and admiring tribute, which called forth this response from the genial Autocrat: Beverly Farm, Mass., Oct. 5, 1884. My Dear Sir: I beg you to accept my sincere thanks for your very pleasant lines. I am sorry they were too late for the birthday number of The Critic; for they would have been reckoned among the best and most graceful of all that were sent. Believe me, Gratefully yours, OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES The most popular poem, however, of this class is one dedicated to Wyatt M. Redding, the telegraph operator who during the yellow fever epidemic of 1878 bravely died at the post of duty in the plague stricken city of Grenada. For its historical as well as poetical value it should be preserved. WYATT M. REDDING. GRENADA, 1878. Click, Click Like the beat of a death-watch, sharp and quick, From hearts that are stifled and lips that are dumb With the lightning's speed, and the lightning's thrill, The dark words go and come: Click, click, and a pulse is still-- There's a form to shroud and a grave to fill, For the Yellow Death is upon the air, And the city lies in the clutch of Despair. Not less a hero than he whose plume Goes blood-stained down in the conflict's gloom, Not less a martyr than those who slake A blood-thirst, bound to the burning stake, Is he who stands as the last defence Against the shock of the pestilence. Click, Click His heart is strong and his fingers quick, 'Tis a fearful work of hand and brain, Each click is a groan, each word is a pain, But he falters not in the fight with death, Even under his wings as he breathes his breath, The shrouded city before him lies, And the dead drop down 'neath the burning skies, Never a smile, or a word to cheer, Brightens his eye, or falls on his ear, All is dreary and all is dumb, Save the hourly wail from a stricken home. Click, Click 'Tis the only hope where the dead are thick, Where the living strewn by the plague's hot breath Are sown with the ripening seeds of death. Still, the hero-boy at his key-board stands, And many a far off city feels The thrill of the wire, and its mute appeals, And hands are stretched from the East and West Their upward palms with a blessing blest, As it comes to those who meet their doom Like scorched leaves struck by the hot simoon.