Dear “Nealy:”

I saw in yesterday's “Post” What first I considered a witch or a ghost, But closer inspection developed a woman, Or something or other that seemed to be human. Seated firmly upon a new fangled trycycle, Umbrella in hand to shield her fair face, While her feet touched the pedals with infinite grace. At first I exclaimed, “this artist if crazy.” But on closer inspection pronounced him “a daisy” With the finest and nicest of artistic taste Who could group so much beauty and leave nothing to waste. So I've looked through the gardens to find some expression For the artist who made this wondrous digression And with a few strokes of his brush and his pen, Has placed in the midst of most eminent men, A simply home woman, who only had thought To lighten the labors her business had wrought, And make a machine serve the purpose of feet, And at the same time keep her dress from the street. You have made her historic and given a place In your pious paper for her name and her face; The cycle of ages which men of renown, So accept, my dear “Nealy” this token of flowers, As a faint recognition of your artistic powers;— AS a simple expression of the pride that I feel In the rising young artist whose talents reveal A genius too great for time long to conceal.  Yours Truly,     B. A. Lockwood.