If any one in this wide, old world, after reading the wealth of evidence in this little volume, still thinks Young E. Allison did not write “Derelict,” let him come to me like a man and say so and I’ll give him a good swift stab in the eye, with my eye, and say: “You don’t want to be convinced.” This includes the editor of The New York Times Book Review. When he made an egregious blunder by stating that “Derelict” was an unskilled sailor’s jingle, a wave of protest reached him. He then printed Walt Mason’s letter describing the poem as a work of art and altered his editorial characterization of it to “famous old chanty.” In the same breath he wrote that it was not likely that Mr. Allison was the author—but why not likely? It is plain that somebody must have written it. Nobody else’s name had ever been associated with it. The Times man had nobody to suggest as the author. Why, then, maintain that Mr. Allison was not the author? His sole reason is that the “Bowdlerized” and bastard version which he printed had been copied from a manuscript written into an old book printed in 1843! What does the ink say about dates? What do the pen marks say? Great gods and little fishes! If ever I shall desire to antiquitize a modernity I’ll copy it into an old book and send a transcript to that delightful Babe of the Woods of The New York Times Book Review.

When Rubric, a Chicago magazine venture of attractiveness, but doomed in advance to failure, published Allison’s poem under the title “On Board the Derelict,” I detached three sets of the eight illustrated and illuminated pages on which it was printed, had the sheets inlaid in hand-made paper and neatly bound. This was accomplished with the sage advice of my old playmate, Frank M. Morris, the bookman of Chicago. One of these volumes was made for Mr. Allison, (so that he would surely have at least one copy of his own poem), a second was for my bookish friend, James F. Joseph, then of Chicago and now of Indianapolis, and a third was for my own library. The mere fact that Allison was five years autographing my particular copy has no bearing whatever in this discussion, but leads me to say that I felt amply repaid in the end by this very handsome inscription on the fly-leaf:

Well, because “Derelict” was a delight and Allison my friend, I gave away Rubrics by the score and, among others, saw that a copy went to Wallace Rice, literatus—and Chicago book reviewer—to whom I owe an everlasting debt of gratitude for precious moments saved by good advice on modern stuff not to read. In presenting “Derelict,” the Rubric publishers left an impression that the poem had but then been completed† † See letter to “The New York Times Book Review”. for its pages. I knew better; Wallace had read it before, in whole or in part and raised a question. It so worked upon me that later I decided to submit it to Allison himself. Sometimes we do things, and know not why, that have a very distinct later and wholly unexpected bearing upon situations, and when the opportunity for this volume arose, the memory that I had saved Allison’s penciled reply came over me. A patient search had its reward. Here is the letter† † Reproduced in facsimile. written with the same old lead pencil on the same old spongy copy paper:

That this narrative may be complete, the articles and comment that appeared in The New York Times Book Review are reproduced, together with a letter to the editor written by the author of this volume, which, neither acknowledged nor published by him, obtained wide circulation through The Scoop,† † Issue of October 10, 1914. a magazine issued every Saturday by The Press Club of Chicago. It was quite characteristic of Allison to decline the very urgent requests of many friends to jump into the arena and make a claim for that which is his own creation and in coming to a negative decision, his reasons are probably best expressed in a letter to Henry A. Sampson, who himself writes poetry: