An urchin at his father's knee      Sat scribbling on his slate, And "Dearest father," quavered he, "When I grow up I long to be      A writer, rich and great." That parent gently laid his hand      Upon the curly head, And in a voice of deep command      He sorrowfully said: "Oh, shun, lad, the life of an author.      It's nothing but worry and waste. Avoid that utensil, The laboring pencil,      And pick up the scissors and paste. For authors wear hand-me-down suits, lad;      "Their cuffs, they are frayed at the wrist. But castles and riches And custom-made britches      Belong to the anthologist, My boy,      Await on the anthologist." "Now, father dear," the youth replied,      "Mere wealth, I am above it. It is the reputation wide, The playwright's pomp, the poet's pride,      That eagerly I covet." Then wrath lit up his elder's face,      And in an accent burning He shouted, "From your mind erase      Such vain creative yearning! "You'd better compile a collection      Of words that another has wrote. It's the shears and the glue Which will compensate you      And fashion a person of note. For poets have common companions.      Their fame is a wraith in the mist. But the critics all quarrel To garland with laurel      The brow of the anthologist, My son,      The brow of the anthologist." Years pased. To heed, that urchin failed,      What his papa had hinted. Not thinking what the act entailed, To magazines his lines he mailed      And often got them printed. But when reviewers passed him by      For books he'd helped adorn, "I wish I'd listened," he would sigh,      "When father used to warn: "'Oh, shun, lad, the life of an author.      It's a road unrewarding and vile. For the miracle's wrought With a mucilage pot      And a feasible reference file. Forever that Ode on the Urn, sir,      Has headed the publishers' list. But the name isn't Keats On the royalty sheets      That go out to the anthologist, My lad,      The sedulous anthologist.'"