Extract from a verse
letter to Sidney Low

There is gold in the News they call Daily,
   There is pence in the sheets of Pall Mall,
But I whistle in front of them gaily 
   And softly consign them to—well,
If you, Sir, had suffered my anguish 
   Alone,  'neath a tropical sun,
You'd let every newspaper languish, 
   Ere making a contract with one.

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