Not squirrels in the park alone His love and winter-kindness own. When Literary Fledglings try Their wings, in first attempt to fly, They flutter down to Franklin Square, Where Howells in his "Easy Chair" Like good Saint Francis scatters crumbs Of Hope, to each small bird that comes. And since Bread, cast upon the main, Must to the giver come again, I tender now, long overtime, This humble Crumb of grateful rhyme. I like to draw Napoleon best Because one hand is in his vest, The other hand behind his back. (For drawing hands I have no knack.)…
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