Rave of hers. But on a trestle,
Oh, sad! A southbound train went east.
Being in the train, she’s now deceased.

Lettering was her chief delight.

She worked at it with all her might.
Roman, modern, and manuscript
Formed easily as pen she dipped

And drew and dipped again. To see
The flowing forms of “O” and “C”
Was joy. Let this a warning be

To letterers, both far and wide.

She married. Time passed. Then she died
A natural death at sixty-seven.
—And, let us see—she had eleven.

There was one who said but little;
One who liked to sit and whittle
Lovely shapes in lino blocks;

One whose paintings of red socks
And teddy bears and cowboy’s chaps
Showed promise of what was, perhaps,
To be a great and long career.

Alas! At this point, shed a tear—
She was allergic to turpentine—

The fumes, one day, without a sign
Of danger, choked her at her work.
Oh fate! That was a cruel quirk!

That florid beaming one we knew

And loved so well has died of *flu—
Oh horrid thought! But let us pause,
And let us truly seek the cause

Of her undying fame. At last

To lift the veil off from her past;

To show the world each slip and cast—
Every scrap she had amassed—

Her composition and idle dawdles,

Her pottery and many models

Of fellow-troupers in their parts,

Ah! She is graven on our hearts!

Too, skill on radio and stage

Was rivalled by her written page,

Where plots and plays came thick and fast.
She wrote that poor old ’arold was gassed
At historic “Battle of Hastings” instead
Of an “Yarrer in ‘is eye,’ ’as said.

A noble lass she was—a kind
And sympathetic soul behind
Her glasses and her grin. She pried
In little children’s books, and eyed
The illustrations there to see
What would fill a babe with glee.
@ became a toy designer;
Then she married, and no finer
Sons and daughters grew. No matter—
That is all past. Cease this patter!