modest statement of fact. It is his notion that "these things take care of themselves, and usually work out all right." I am cynical enough to doubt it.
Now when a reader ecstatically has "discovered" this famous ballad, and has learned it by heart, and has run around chanting it to his friends, his first thought is likely to be: "What else has this Allison man done?" And he will hasten off to book-shops and libraries intent on procuring a whole volume of equally delectable and fascinating pirate songs. I made this heartbreaking search years ago; but it was a long time before I found a trace of Young E. Allison. Then I met a man who knew him. Then I met Allison himself. I wish it were permitted me to eulogize at length this delightful man, but here is not the place.
Young E. Allison is the editor of the Insurance Field, with headquarters in Louisville. That has been his profession and his home for a great many years. All day long his head is filled with figures, as for many years was Lamb's. In odd moments, when he happens to feel like it, he writes verses and essays; less often he writes short stories. At long intervals he is dragged from his home and cozened into maiding addresses, but the occasion must be a rare one—the
