From the New York Tribune, September 18, 1912. Dear Sir, I am a bachelor; My income is twelve hun’. ‘Tis small, no doubt, yet I contrive To have a deal of fun. You’ll think me selfish, yet until I’m richer, I must own, I’d rather be a bachelor, And jog along alone. Far be it from me to deride Or scoff at wedded bliss; I’ve thought the matter over well, And my opinion’s this: Though bachelors are selfish things, ‘Twould just as selfish be To take a wife, and bring her to A life of drudgery. Suppose I loved a girl (I do), D’you think I’d care to see Her toil, and soil her pretty hands The livelong day for me? If I grow rich, I’ll crave the hand Of her whom I adore; If not, dear sir, I must remain A lonely bachelor.