'Come, see,' said he, 'my four-foot shelf, A forty volume row; And every one I wrote myself, But that, of course, you know.' I stared, I searched a memory dim, For though an author too, Somehow I'd never heard of him,-- None of his books I knew. Said I: 'I'd like to borrow one, Fond memories to recall.' Said he: 'I'll gladly give you some, And autograph them all.' And so a dozen books he brought, And signed tome after tome: Of course I thanked him quite a lot, And took them home. So now I have to read his work, Though dry as dust it be; No portion of it may I shirk, Lest he should question me. This tale is true,--although it looks To me a bloody shame, A guy could father forty books, yet no one know his name.