[Illustration: THINKING ABOUT THE POEM.] That is the reason why some people love to fool with this great chemical. It revives their suspicions regarding the presence of a brain. The habits of literary men vary a good deal, for no two of them seem to care to adopt the same plan. I have taken the liberty of showing here my own laboratory and methods of thought. This is from a drawing made by myself, and represents the writer in his study and in the act of thinking about a poem. Last summer I wrote a large poem entitled, “_Moanings of the Moist, Malarious Sea._” I have it still. The back of it has a memoranda on it in blue pencil from the leading editors of our broad land, but otherwise it is just as I wrote it. The engraving represents me in the act of thinking about the poem, and what I will do with the money when I get it. I am now preparing a poem entitled, “_The Umbrella_.” It is a dainty little bit of verse, and my hired man thinks it is a gem. I called it “The Umbrella” so that it would not be returned. By looking at the drawing you will see the rapid change of expression on the face as the work goes on. I give the drawing in order also, to show the rich furniture of the room. All poets do not revel in such gaudy trappings as I do, but I cannot write well in a bare and ill-furnished room. In these apartments there is also a window which does not show in the engraving. I have tried over and over again to write a poem in a room that had no window in it, but I cannot say that I ever wrote one under such circumstances that I thought would live. You can do as you think best about furnishing your room as I have mine. You might, of course, succeed as well by writing in a plainer apartment, but I could not. All my poetical work that was done in the cramped and plainly furnished room that I formerly occupied over Knadler's livery stable, was ephemeral. It got into a few of the leading autograph albums of the country, but it never got into the papers. I would not use alcohol, however. Poe and Prentice could use it, but I never could. After a long debauch, I could always work well enough on the street but I could not do literary work. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Remarks, by Bill Nye