“This the Editor’s room, sir?” the thunderer shouted,
    In the tone which so often a phalanx had routed;
    While he nervously twiddled the “gamp” in his hand,
    Which so often had scatter’d a mutinous band.

    Now the Editor’s views were as broad as the ocean
    (His heart represented its wildest commotion),
    In a moment he took in the whole situation
    (And double distilled it in heart palpitation): 
    Then quickly arose with a dignified air,
    And the wave of a hand and a nod at a chair;
    Saying:  “Yes, sir; it is, sir:  be seated a minute,
    The Editor’s in, and I’ll soon send him in it.” 
    Then as quick as a flash of his own ready wit,
    He opened the door and got outside of it.

He skipp’d with a bound o’er
The stairs to the ground floor,
And turning his feet bore
Straight on for the street door;
When—­what could astound more—­’
The spot he was bound for
Was guarded in force by that great butter tubber,
The patriot millionaire, Alderman Grubber: 
A smart riding-whip impatiently cracking,
The food for his vengeance the only thing lacking. 
“Is the Editor in?” said the voice that had thrilled,
A thousand times over the big Town Hall filled! 
While the crack of the whip and the stamp of the feet,
Made the Editor wish himself safe in the street.

But an Editor’s ever a man of resource,
He is never tied down to one definite course: 
He shrank not a shrink nor waver’d a wave,
He blank not a blink nor quaver’d a quave;
But, pointing upstairs as he turn’d to the door,
Said “Editor’s room number two second floor.”

    Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey,
    Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day: 
    Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe,
    The captain was pacing the room to and fro
    When the Alderman enter’d—­but here draw a veil,
    There is much to be sad for and much to bewail. 
    Whoever began it, or ended the fray,
    All they found in the room when they swept it next day,
    Was a large pile of fragments beyond all identity
    (Monument sad to the conflict’s intensity). 
    And the analyst said whom the coroner quested,
    The whole of the heap he had carefully tested,
    And all he could find in his search analytic
    (But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic),
    He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple,
    Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle.

    And the Editor throve, as all editors should
    Who devote all their thought to the popular good: 
    For the paper containing this little affair,
    Ran to many editions and sold everywhere. 
    And the moral is plain, tho’ you do your own writing,
    There are better plans than to do your own fighting!