(with apologies to Frederic Taber Cooper) br br I well recall (and who does not) br The circus bill-board hippopotamus, br whose wide distended jaws br For fear and terror were good cause. br br That month, that vasty carmine cave, br Could munch with ease a Nubian slave; br In fact, the bill-board hippopot- br amus could bolt a house and lot! br br Wide opened, that tremendous mouth br Obscured three-quarters of the south br Side of Schmidt’s barn, and promised me br Thrills, shocks, delights and ecstasy. br br And then, alas! what sad non plus br The living hippopotamus! br ’Twas but a stupid, sodden lump br As thrilling as an old elm stump. br br Its mouth—unreasonably small— br The hippo opened not at all, br Or, if it did, it was about br As thrilling as a teapot spout. br br br br br br br br br The Crimson Junk, by Doris Watt, br I’ve read it. Who, I pray, has not? br Bill Wastel, by C. Marrow. The br Plaid Cowslip. And The Hocking Lee. br br The Fallow Field, by Sally Loo; br The Rose in Chains. I’ve read that too; br I’ve read them all for promised treat br Of thrills, emotions, tremblings sweet.