(in paris)

abou ben woodrow in bed watching angel reading from scroll

abou ben woodrow (may his tribe increase!)

awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,

and saw, among the gifts piled on the floor

(making the room look like a department store),

an angel writing in a book of gold.

now much applause had made ben woodrow bold

and to the presence in the room said he,

"qu'est-ce que c'est que ?a que tu ecris?"

or, in plain english, "may i not inquire

what writest thou?" the angel did not tire

but kept on scribing. then it turned its head

(all europe could not turn ben woodrow's head!)

and with a voice almost as sweet as creel's

answered: "the names of those who grease the wheels

of progress and have never, never blundered."

ben woodrow lay quite still, and sadly wondered.

"and is mine one?" he queried. "nay, not so,"

replied the angel. woodrow spoke more low

but cheerly still, and in his may i notting

fashion he said: "of course you may be rotting,

but even if you are, may i not then

be writ as one that loves his fellow men?

do that for me, old chap; just that; that merely

and i am yours, cordially and sincerely."

the angel wrote, and vanished like a mouse.

next night returned (accompanied by house)

and showed the names whom love of peace had blest.

and lo! ben woodrow's name led all the rest!