There are magazines for string-winders, for junior female deans,

Button-collectors, east coast agents for farm fire insurance,

Probably for vice presidents of screw-shank nail companies.

There are; though who need to be reminded of them, the catalogs.

Mine are delivered by George, good mail-carrier, probably advisory

Editor of a magazine for junior carriers in non-air-port towns.

Fishing-tackle catalogs. Book catalogs. Sportswear catalogs:

Shirts for deer-hunters, and the children and wives of deer-hunters,

Duck-calls, under-sock socks, trout-calls, and belt-holders for them.

George thinks I have the most interesting mail, on the whole street.

Suppose I do not go into model railroad catalogs in color, but briefly

Speak of the British magazines that load my coffee-table, of the ads

In Country Life for a hundred and eight acres, a hundred rooms,

Good shooting, stables etcetera; or the pre and post Coronation

Pictures in the everlastingly brown London Illustrated News.

And the morning papers and the weekly magazines, the evening papers.

All this specialization, wonderful and buyable, is drainage.

I ask you to listen to the noise of the disposal of all this.

Every day I throw away five times as much as comes into the house.

But I'm still in charge of throwing it away, I manage multiplicity.

The past was not too much, why should the very present whelm me.

Today George brought a catalog from my favorite hardware store.

I've ordered a new trundle for the trash barrels, to roll out

The catalogs, the tired old magazines, and the bill for the trundler.