Will the reader please to cast his eye over the following lines, and see if he can discover anything harmful in them?

               Conductor, when you receive a fare,
               Punch in the presence of the passenjare! 
               A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare,
               A buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,
               A pink trip slip for a three-cent fare,
               Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

Chorus

               Punch, brothers! punch with care! 
               Punch in the presence of the passenjare!

I came across these jingling rhymes in a newspaper, a little while ago, and read them a couple of times.  They took instant and entire possession of me.  All through breakfast they went waltzing through my brain; and when, at last, I rolled up my napkin, I could not tell whether I had eaten anything or not.  I had carefully laid out my day’s work the day before—­thrilling tragedy in the novel which I am writing.  I went to my den to begin my deed of blood.  I took up my pen, but all I could get it to say was, “Punch in the presence of the passenjare.”  I fought hard for an hour, but it was useless.  My head kept humming, “A blue trip slip for an eight-cent fare, a buff trip slip for a six-cent fare,” and so on and so on, without peace or respite.  The day’s work was ruined—­I could see that plainly enough.  I gave up and drifted down-town, and presently discovered that my feet were keeping time to that relentless jingle.  When I could stand it no longer I altered my step.  But it did no good; those rhymes accommodated themselves to the new step and went on harassing me just as before.  I returned home, and suffered all the afternoon; suffered all through an unconscious and unrefreshing dinner; suffered, and cried, and jingled all through the evening; went to bed and rolled, tossed, and jingled right along, the same as ever; got up at midnight frantic, and tried to read; but there was nothing visible upon the whirling page except “Punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare.”  By sunrise I was out of my mind, and everybody marveled and was distressed at the idiotic burden of my ravings—­“Punch! oh, punch! punch in the presence of the passenjare!”

Two days later, on Saturday morning, I arose, a tottering wreck, and went
forth to fulfil an engagement with a valued friend, the Rev. Mr.------,
to walk to the Talcott Tower, ten miles distant.   He stared at me, but
asked no questions.   We started.  Mr.------ talked, talked, talked as is
his wont.   I said nothing; I heard nothing.   At the end of a mile,
Mr.------ said  “Mark, are you sick?   I never saw a man look so haggard
and worn and absent-minded.   Say something, do!”

Drearily, without enthusiasm, I said:  “Punch brothers, punch with care!  Punch in the presence of the passenjare!”

My friend eyed me blankly, looked perplexed, they said: