From The Seattle Star, November 16, 1912. By Berton Braley. I bought a cyclopedia (Ten volumes, bound in calf). Said I, “My reading’s been too light; All froth and useless chaff; I’m really ignorant, I’ve been Too frivolous, by half!” Upon the shelf I placed the set And gazed on it with pride, And I was awed to think how much Of wisdom was inside; What harvestings of wondrous lore, That came from far and wide. Upon that self-same shelf it stands, And it will linger there; For, though I studied patiently, Then wept and tore my hair, At last I gave the problem up, In anguish and despair. For every highbrow in the world Had writ of various things, “Of ships and soap and sealing wax, And cabbages and kings.” I couldn’t understand a word, And still my poor head rings. They wrote in seven syllables, With formulae abstruse; They wallowed deep in Delphic words, Which scared me like the deuce. Among their curves and diagrams, I muttered, “What’s the use?” From out its shelf that set of books Looks down with aspect grand And, gazing at it, I remark: “Is there no soul at hand To write a cyclopedia Which folks can understand?”