Postlude

The book is finished! With a sigh, My pen upon the desk I lay; The weary task is o'er, and I Am off upon a holiday, To Paris, lovely Paris, where I have a little ventr’ - a-terre.

And tho’ my verses may be weak, And call for your severest strictures, The illustrations are unique,— I really never saw such pictures! ( At times, in my unthinking way, I almost hope I never may. )