Shanghai, Feb. 23—Out early this morning to find a Magpie in the middle of my lawn throwing masses of fluff up in the air like a small girl blowing on a dandelion and saying "he loves me, he loves me not": further investigation proved that the dandelion im this case was a not entirely dead Bulbul which this wretched bird had beaten down and was now plucking: I had to despatch the poor creature, las it could not possibly have lived, and it all made me feel very miserable: I am not responsible for these wild birds which seek protection in my garden, but I feel a sense of responsibility and hate to lose an old friend such as this Bulbul: so for want of a better outlet I sat down and wrote this:
Hand me my lyre, said the poet-elect, "ud TU sing you a song in tears! a cong that will wring the hearts of ren and be sung for a hundred years.
Hand me my lyre and TU sing you a song of birds and beasts and flowers; of the budding tree and the droning bee and the scent of sunny ours.
Hand me my lyre and I'l make you a song such as never was made before; it will choke your breath as it tells of death and the laws of tooth and claw.
Hand me my lyre shrieked the: poet again. and don't keep me waiting all night! So his wife passed over the shaving mirror and the poet said, "You're right."
I greatly regret this lyrical outburst, but it somehow did me good when I wrote it: and I notice that already there is a new Abdul flapping his wings and boasting to the lady Bulbul which nests in my laurels. Of it might even be possible that the deceased bird was merely an interloper. How can I tell?
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.