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 I am lying, Johnston, lying—so I cannot walk to thee, To the glorious punchifying, where the merry fellows be; Where the painters all are tippling the most picturesque of punches; In its gentle eddy rippling through the jolliest of lunches; Where those tales of Bayard Taylor's with Herodotus compete, And Cranch will sing the Sailors who their comrade tried to eat.

How I wonder what you fellows think or speak of me to-day! Will it worry Dr. Bellows if Carl Benson is away,