Whither is fled the Secretary Bird?
The woods bewail her; nor on echoing trees
Like the woodpecker's tapping traceries,
The tapping of her typewriter is heard,
Spelling a doubtful word.

Haply away with some wild swain she spurs,
The gentle Palmer, he whose pen of fire
Puts to his F. E. Spencer no Esquire
As is the wont of colder publishers,
But is, tender tho' terse,
Faithfully hers.