The poem
Being a writer I receive Sweet screeds from folk of every land; Some are so weird you'd scarce believe, And some quite hard to understand: But as a conscientious man I type my thanks to all I can.
So when I got a foreign scrawl That spider-webbed across the page, Said I: "This is the worst of all; No doubt a child of tender age Has written it, so I'll be kind, And send an answer to her mind.
Promptly I typed a nice reply And thought that it would be the end, But in due course confused was I To get a letter signed: Your Friend; And with it, full of girlish grace, A snapshot of a winsome face.
"I am afraid," she wrote to me, "That you must have bees sure surprised At my poor penmanship . . . You see, My arms and legs are paralyzed: With pen held in a sort of sheath I do my writing with my teeth."
Though sadness followed my amaze, And pity too, I must confess The look that lit her laughing gaze Was one of sunny happiness. . . . Oh spirit of a heroine! Your smile so tender, so divine, I pray, may never cease to shine.