FS .B3C7 %\ "^ v^ 'V. oWli %■ • f n K -^ o^ o ■fi ^O 0^ A -n^ ^.^ ^^- ^'^jm ^ o^_ > " ' ARE YOU RELATED TO GOVERNOR m'KINLEY ? rPage 8. COFFEE AND REPARTEE BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS ^C07>J IS9: ^^ ^v^ -p V Harper's ''Black and White" Series. Illustrated, samo, Cloth, 50 cents each. WHITTIER : NOTES OF HIS LIFE AND OF HIS FRIENDSHIPS. By ANNIE Fields. GILES COREY, YEOMAN. By MARY E.AVilkins. COFFEE AND REPARTEE. By JOHN KendriCK BANGS. SEEN FROM THE SADDLE. By ISA CARRINGTON Cabell. A FAMILY CANOE TRIP. By FLORENCE WATTERS Snedeker. A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN. By WILLIAM DEAN Howells. A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION. A Farce. By WILLIAM Dean Howells. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. An Address. By GEORGE William Curtis. IN THE VESTIBULE LIMITED. By BRANDER MAT- THEWS. THE ALBANY DEPOT. A Farce. By WILLIAM DEAN Howells. Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. For sale by all booksellers, or "will be sent by the publishers, postage prepaid, on receipt of price. Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers. All rights reserved. TO F. S. M. ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE " ' Are you related to Governor McKinley ?' » . Frontispiece. Alarmed the Cook ' 5 ' What are the first symptoms of insanity? ' " . . . 13 * Reading Webster's Dictionary ' " ^7 . ' I stuck to the pigs ' " , . . . • 23- The Conspirators ^5 Wern't your ears long enough?' " 33 The corks popped to some purpose last night ' " . . 37 If you could spare so little as one flame '" ... 43 The School-master as a Cooler 47 "' Reading the Sunday newspapers ' " 5^ Bobbo 55 Wooing the Muse ^7 " ' He gave up jokes '" 7^ " ' A little garden of my own, where I could raise an oc- casional can of tomatoes' " 7 5 '"A hind-quarter of lamb gambolling about its native heath'" 77 "' The gladsome click of the lawn-mower '" . ... 80 You don't mean to say that you write for the pa- pers?'" " ' We wooed the self-same maid ' " Curing Insomnia " Holding his plate up to the Light " " ' I believe you'd blowout the gas in your bedroom ' " '- ' His fairy stories were told him in words of ten sylla- bles ' " " ' I thought my father a mean-spirited assassin ' " . . Mrs. S. brought him to the point of proposing'" , Hoorah!' cried the Idiot, grasping Mr. Pedagog by the hand ' " The guests at Mrs. Smithers's high-class boarding-house for gentlemen had assem- bled as usual for breakfast, and in a few moments Mary, the dainty waitress, en- tered with the steaming cofTee, the mush, and the rolls. The School-master, who, by-the-way, was suspected by Mrs. Smithers of having inten- tions, and who for that reason occupied the ! chair nearest the lady's heart, folded up the morning paper, and placing it under him so that no one else could get it, observed, quite genially for him, " It was very wet yester- day." «'I didn't find it so," observed a young man seated half-way down the table, who was by common consent called the Idiot, because of his " views." " In fact, I was very dry. Curious thing, I'm always dry on rainy days. I am one of the kind of men who know that it is the part of wisdom to stay in when it rains, or to carry an umbrella when it is not possible to stay at home, or, having no home, like ourselves, to remain cooped up in stalls, or stalled up in coops, as you may prefer." "You carried an umbrella, then ?" queried the landlady, ignoring the Idiot's shaft at the size of her " elegant and airy apartments " with an ease born of experience. "Yes, madame," returned the Idiot, quite unconscious of what was coming. " Whose }" queried the lady, a sarcastic smile playing about her lips. "That I cannot say, Mrs. Smithers," re- plied the Idiot, serenely, " but it is the one you usually carry." " Your insinuation, sir," said the School- master, coming to the landlady's rescue, " is an unworthy one. The umbrella in ques- tion is mine. It has been in my possession for five years." "Then," replied the Idiot, unabashed, "it is time you returned it. Don't you think men's morals are rather lax in this matter !of umbrellas, Mr. Whitechoker?" he added, jturning from the School-master, who began to show signs of irritation. " Very," said the Minister, running his fin- ger about his neck to make the collar which had been sent home from the laundry by mistake set more easily—" very lax. At the, last Conference I attended, some person, forgetting his high office as a minister in the Church, walked off with my umbrella without so much as a thank you ; and it was embarrassing too, because the rain was coming down in bucketfuls." " What did you do ?" asked the landlady, sympathetically. She liked Mr. Whitechok- er's sermons, and, beyond this, he was a more profitable boarder than any of the others, remaining home to luncheon every day and having to pay extra therefor. " There was but one thing left for me to do. I took the bishop's umbrella," said Mr. Whitechoker, blushing slightly. " But you returned it, of course ?" said the Idiot. " I intended to, but I left it on the train on my way back home the next day," re- plied the clergyman, visibly embarrassed by the Idiot's unexpected cross-examination. "It's the same way with books," put in the Bibliomaniac, an unfortunate being whose love of rare first editions had brought him down from affluence to boarding. " Many a man who wouldn't steal a dollar would run' off with a book. I had a friend once who had a rare copy of Through Africa by Day- \ light, k was a beautiful book. Only twenty-' five copies printed. The margins of the : pages were four inches wide, and the title- page was rubricated ; the frontispiece was colored by hand, and the seventeenth page had one of the most amusing typographical errors on it — " I "Was there any reading- matter in the | book?" queried the Idiot, blowing softly on a hot potato that was nicely balanced on the end of his fork. "Yes, a little; but it didn't amount to much," returned the Bibliomaniac. " But, you know, it isn't as reading-matter that, men like myself care for books. We have a higher notion than that. It is as a speci- men of book -making that we admire a chaste bit of literature like Throzigh Afri- ca by Daylight. But, as I was saying, my friend had this book, and he'd extra-illus- trated it. He had pictures from all parts of the world in it, and the book had grown from a volume of one hundred pages to four volumes of two hundred pages each." "And it was stolen by a highly honora- ble friend, I suppose ?" queried the Idiot. " Yes, it was stolen — and my friend never knew by whom," said the Bibliomaniac. "What?" asked the Idiot, in much sur- prise. " Did you never confess }" It was very fortunate for the Idiot that the buckwheat cakes were brought on at this moment. Had there not been some diversion of that kind, it is certain that the Bibliomaniac would have assaulted him. "It is very kind of Mrs. Smithers, !_ think," said the School-master, "to provide us with such delightful cakes as these free of charge." " Yes," said the Idiot, helping himself to six cakes. " Very kind indeed, although I must say they are extremely economical from an architectural point of view — which is to say, they are rather fuller of pores than of buckwheat. I wonder whv it is," he con- tinued, possibly to avert the landlady's re- taliatory comments — *' I wonder why it is that porous plasters and buckwheat cakes are so similar in appearance ?" " And so widely different in their respec- tive effects on the system," put in a genial old gentleman who occasionally imbibed, seated next to the Idiot. " I fail to see the similarity between a buckwheat cake and a porous plaster," said the School-master, resolved, if possible, to embarrass the Idiot. " You don't, eh ?" replied the latter. " Then it is very plain, sir, that you have never eaten a porous plaster." To this the School-master could find no reasonable reply, and he took refuge in silence. Mr. Whitechoker tried to look severe ; the gentleman who occasionally imbibed smiled all over; the Bibliomaniac ignored the remark entirely, not having as yet forgiven the Idiot for his gross insinua- tion regarding his friend's edition de luxe of Through Africa by Daylight ; Mary, the maid, who greatly admired the Idiot, not so much for his idiocy as for the aristocratic manner in which he carried him>self, and the truly striking striped shirts he wore, left the room in a convulsion of laughter that so alarmed the cook below-stairs that the next platterful of cakes were more like tin plates than cakes ; and as for Mrs. Smithers, that worthy woman was speechless with wrath. But she was not paralyzed apparently, for reaching down into her pocket she brought forth a small piece of paper, on which was written in detail the " account due " of the Idiot. " I'd like to have this settled, sir," she said, with some asperity. " Certainly, my dear madame," replied the Idiot, unabashed — " certainly. Can you change a check for a hundred ?" No, Mrs. Smithers could not. " Then I shall have to put off paying the account until this evening," said the Idiot. " But," he added, with a glance at the amount of the bill, " are you related to Governor McKinley, Mrs. Smithers ?" " I am not," she returned, sharply. " My mother was a Partington." " I only asked," said the Idiot, apologeti- cally, " because I am very much interested in the subject of heredity, and you ma}' not know it, but you and he have each a marked tendency towards high-tariff bills." And before Mrs. Smithers could think of anything to say, the Idiot was on his way down town to help his employer lose money Ion Wall Street. II "Do you know, I sometimes think—" began the Idiot, opening and shutting the silver cover of his watch several times withi a snap, with the probable, and not alto-'- gether laudable, purpose of calling his^ landlady's attention to the fact — of which she was already painfully aware— that break- fast was fifteen minutes late. " Do you, really ?" interrupted the School- i master, looking up from his book with an i air of mock surprise. " I am sure I never should have suspected it." " Indeed ?" returned the . Idiot, undis- turbed by this reflection upon his intellect. " I don't really know whether that is due to your generally unsuspicious nature, or to your shortcomings as a mind-reader." " There are some minds," put in the land- lady at this point, " that are so small that it would certainly ruin the eyes to read them." j • I have seen many such," observed the Idiot, suavely. " Even our friend the BibH- omaniac at times has seemed to me to be very absent-minded. And that reminds me, Doctor," he continued, addressing him- self to the medical boarder. " What is the cause of absent-mindedness ?" " That," returned the Doctor, ponder- ously, " is a very large question. Absent- imindedness, generally speaking, is the result of the projection of the intellect into sur- roundings other than those which for want of a better term I might call the corporeally immediate." " So I have understood," said the Idiot, approvingly. "And is absent-mindedness acquired or inherent ?" Here the Idiot appropriated the roll of his neighbor. "That depends largely upon the case," replied the Doctor, nervously. " Some are born absent-minded, some achieve absent- mindedness, and some have absent-minded- ness thrust upon them." " As illustrations of which we might take, for instance, I suppose," said the Idiot, "the born idiot, the borrower, and the man who is knocked silly by the pole of a truck on Broadway." " Precisely," replied the Doctor, glad to get out of the discussion so easily. He was a very young doctor, and not always sure of himself. " Or," put in the School-master, " to con- dense our illustrations, if the Idiot would kindly go out upon Broadway and encoun- ter the truck, we should find the three com- bined in him." The landlady here laughed quite heartily, and handed the School -master an extra strong cup of cofTee. " There is a great deal in what you say," said the Idiot, without a tremor. " There are very few scientific phenomena that can- not be demonstrated in one way or another by my poor self. It is the exception always that proves the rule, and in my case you find a consistent converse exemplification of all three branches of absent-mindedness." " He talks well," said the Bibliomaniac, sotto voce, to the Minister. "Yes, especially when he gets hold of large words. I really believe he reads,"; replied Mr. Whitechoker. " I know he does," said the School-master, who had overheard. " I saw him reading Webster's Dictionary last night. I have noticed, however, that generally his vocab- ulary is largely confined to words that come between the letters A and F, which shows that as yet he has not dipped very deeply into the book." ^ "What are you murmuring about .^"queried the Idiot, noting the lowered tone of those on the other side of the table. "We were conversing— ahem! about—" began the Minister, with a despairing glance at the Bibliomaniac. " Let me say it," interrupted the Biblio- maniac. " You aren't used to prevarication, and that is what is demanded at this time. We were talking about— ah— about— er—" " Tut ! tut !" ejaculated the School-master. " We were only saying we thought the— er — the— that the—" " What are the first symptoms of insanity, Doctor.?" observed the Idiot, with a look of wonder at the three shuflfling boarders op- posite him, and turning anxiously to the physician. " I wish you wouldn't talk shop," retorted he Doctor, angrily. Insanity was one of lis weak points. " It's a beastly habit," said the School- haster, much relieved at this turn of the :onversation. " Well, perhaps you are right," returned he Idiot. " People do, as a rule, prefer to alk of things they know something about, md I don't blame you. Doctor, for wanting lo keep out of a medical discussion. I only .sked my last question because the behavior •f the Bibliomaniac and Mr. Whitechoker .nd the School-master for some time past las worried me, and I didn't know but what ou might work up a nice little practice mong us. It might not pay, but you'd and the experience valuable, and I think Linique." I " It is a fine thing to have a doctor right |n the house," said Mr. Whitechoker, kindly, tearing that the Doctor's manifest indigna- tion might get the better of him. i " That," returned the Idiot, " is an asser- tion, Mr. Whitechoker, that is both true and untrue. There are times when a physi- Ician is an ornament to a boarding-house ; times when he is not. For instance, on Wednesday morning if it had not been fo the surgical skill of our friend here, ou good landlady could never have managec properly to distribute the late autumr chicken we found upon the menu. Tall) one for the affirmative. On the other hand I must confess to considerable loss of appe- tite when I see the Doctor rolling his bread up into little pills, or measuring the vinegar he puts on his salad by means of a glass , dropper, and taking the temperature of his i coffee with his pocket thermometer. Nor do I like — and I should not have mentioned it save byway of illustrating my position in|i regard to Mr. Whitechoker's assertion—! nor do I like the cold, eager glitter in thej; Doctor's eyes as he watches me consuming,;, with some difficulty, I admit, the cold pastry- we have sei-ved up to us on Saturday morn--- ings under the wholly transparent a/z'as oii 'Hot Bread.' I may have very bad taste,j. but, in my humble opinion, the man who talks shop is preferable to the one who sug- gests it in his eyes. Some more iced pota toes, Mary," he added, calmly. " Madame," said the Doctor, turning an grily to the landlady, " this is insufferable. READING Webster's dictionary You may make out my bill this morning, shall have to seek a home elsewhere." " Oh, now, Doctor !" began the landlady in her most pleading tone. " Jove !" ejaculated the Idiot. " That's j good idea, Doctor. I think I'll go with you I'm not altogether satisfied here myself, bui to desert so charming a company as we hav{i here had never occurred to me. Together; however, we can go forth, and perhaps find happiness. Shall we put on our hunting togs and chase the fiery, untamed hall-roonii to the death this morning, or shall we pui it off until some pleasanter day ?" \ " Put it off," observed the School-masteri- persuasively. " The Idiot was only indulg- ing in persiflage. Doctor. That's all. Whenj you have known him longer you will under-l- stand him better. Views are as necessary:, to him as sunlight to the flowers; and I truly think that in an asylum he would., prove a delightful companion." I "There, Doctor," said the Idiot; "that 'J handsome of the School-master. He couldn't make more of an apology if he tried. I'll forgive him if you will. What say you ?" ,, And strange to say, the Doctor, in spit^ f the indignation wliich still left a red tinge n his cheek, laughed aloud and was recon- iled. As for the School-master, he wanted to e angry, but he did not feel that he could fford his wrath, and for the first time in Dme months the guests went their several ays at peace with . each other and the orld. Ill There was a conspiracy in hand to em barrass the Idiot. The School-master am the Bibliomaniac had combined forces t< give him a taste of his own medicine. Th time had not yet arrived which showed th( Idiot at a disadvantage ; and the two board ers, the one proud of his learning, and th( other not wholly unconscious of a bookisl life, were distinctly tired of the triumphanl manner in which the Idiot always left the breakfast-table to their invariable discom-i fiture. It was the School-master's suggestion to put their tormentor into the pit he had here- tofore digged for them. The worthy in| structor of youth had of late come to see^ that while he was still a prime favorite with his landlady, he had, nevertheless, suffered somewhat in her estimation because of the apparent ease with which the Idiot had got the better of him on all points. It was nee-? J bssary, he thought, to rehabilitate himself, ind a deep-laid plot, to which the Biblio- naniac readily lent ear, was the result of ais reflections. They twain were to indulge In a discussion of the great story of Robert ''^Ismere, which both were confident the Idiot had not read, and concerning which they felt assured he could not have an in- telligent opinion if he had read it. i So it happened upon this bright Sunday Horning that as the boarders sat them down :o partake of the usual " restful breakfast," IS the Idiot termed it, the Bibliomaniac ob- served : " I have just finished reading Robert Els- mere!' ' Have you, indeed T returned the School- master, with apparent interest. " I trust you profited by it ?" " On the contrary," observed the Biblio- maniac. " My views are much unsettled by it." i " I prefer the breast of the chicken, Mrs. 'Smithers," observed the Idiot, sending his plate back to the presiding genius of the table. " The neck of a chicken is graceful, but not too full of sustenance." " He fights shy," whispered the Bibli( maniac, gleefully. " Never mind," returned the School-ma ter, confidently ; " we'll land him yet." The I he added, aloud: "Unsettled by it.> fail to see how any man with beliefs tht are at all the result of mature conviction can be unsettled by the story of Elsmert For my part I believe/ and I have alway said — " " I never could understand why the necl of a chicken should be allowed on a respeo table table anyhow," continued the Idiot ignoring the controversy in which his neigh- bors were engaged, "unless for the puri pose of showing that the deceased fowl mei with an accidental rather than a natural death." | " In what way does the neck demonstrate that point.?" queried the Bibliomaniac, for getting the conspiracy for a moment. " By its twist or by its length, of course,' returned the Idiot. " A chicken that dies ai natural death does not have its neck wrung;' nor when the head is removed by the use; of a hatchet, is it likely that it will be cut off so close behind the e^rs that those wh '\ml I STUCK TO THE PIGS ' eat the chicken are confronted with foi inches of neck." "Very entertaining indeed," interpose the School-master; "but we are wanderin, from the point the Bibliomaniac and I wer discussing. Is or is not the story of Rober Elsuiere unsettling to one's beliefs } Per haps you can help us to decide that ques tion." " Perhaps I can," returned the Idiot "and perhaps not. It did not unsettle m>' beliefs." ' " But don't you think," observed the Bib- liomaniac, "that to certain minds the booki is more or less unsettling.?" " To that I can confidently say no. The certain mind knows no uncertainty," replied the Idiot, calmly. I "Very pretty indeed," said the School--- master, coldly. " But what was your opin- ion of Mrs. Ward's handling of the subject }., Do you think she was sufficiently realistic } And if so, and Elsmere weakened under the stress of circumstances, do you think— or don't you think— the production of such a book harmful, because— being real— it must of necessity be unsettling to some minds?' 26 " I prefer not to express an opinion c that subject," returned the Idiot, " becauj I never read Robert Els—'' " Never read it?" ejaculated the School master, a look of triumph in his eyes. " Why, everybody has read Elsmere tha pretends to have read anything," assertec the Bibliomaniac. " Of course," put in the landlady, with ; scornful laugh. "Well, I didn't," said the Idiot, non- chalantly. "The same ground was gone over two years before in Burrows's great story, Is It, or Is It Not? and anybody who ever read Clink's books on the Non-Exzstent as Opposed to What Is, knows where Bur- rows got his points. Burrows's story was ajj perfect marvel. I don't know how many,' editions it went through in England, and! when it was translated into French by Madame Tournay, it simply set the French wild." " Great Scott !" whispered the Biblioma- niac, desperately, " I'm afraid we've been barking up the wrong tree." "You've read Clink, I suppose.?" asked the Idiot, turning to the School-master .r renewing the conversation — "what do 3U think of the doctrine that every day ill be Sunday by-and-by ?" " I have only to say, sir," returned the Jominie, pouring a little hot water into his lilk, which was a bit too strong for him, that I am a firm believer in the occurrence f a period when Sunday will be to all prac- cal purposes perpetual." " That is my belief, too," observed the ichool-master. " But it will be ruinous to ur good landlady to provide us with one f her exceptionally fine Sunday breakfasts very morning." "Thank you, Mr. Pedagog," returned Irs. Smithers, with a smile. " Can't I give ou another cup of coffee ?" " You may," returned the School-master, »ained at the lady's grammar, but too cour- eous to call attention to it save by the em- )hasis with which he spoke the word " may." " That's one view to take of it," said the ^diot. " But in case we got a Sunday breakfast every day in the week, we, on the iDther hand, would get approximately what Are pay for. You may fill my cup too, Mrs. Smithers." "The coffee is all gone," returned t landlady, with a snap. "Then, Mary," said the Idiot, graceful] turning to the maid, " you may give me glass of ice -water. It is quite as wan after all, as the coffee, and not quite ; weak. A perpetual Sunday, though, wou have its drawbacks," he added, unconscioi of the venomous glances of the landlad " You, Mr. Whitechoker. for instance, wouj be preaching all the time, and in consequenc would soon break down. Then the effec upon our eyes from habitually reading th Sunday newspapers day after day would b extremely bad ; nor must we forget that ai eternity of Sundays means the eliminatioi ' from our midst,' as the novelists say, o baseball, of circuses, of horse-racing, anc other necessities of life, unless we are' pre- pared to cast over the Puritanical view c Sunday which now prevails. It would sub stitute Dr. Watts for ' Annie Rooney.' W should lose ' Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay ' entire ly, which is a point in its favor." "I don't know about that," said the ge nial old gentleman. "I rather like tha I Did you ever hear me sing it ?" iked the Idiot. Never mind," ^turned the ge- ial old gentle- lan, hastily. "Per- aps you are right, fter all." The Idiot smiled, ,nd resumed: "Our hops would be ►erpetually closed, .nd an enormous OSS to the shop- eepers would be ;ure to follow. Mr. j^edagog's theory :hat we should lave Sunday breakfasts every lay is not tenable, :or the reason that ^ith a perpetual day of rest agri- culture would die out, food products would be killed off S6 by unpulled weeds ; in fact, we should g back to that really unfortunate period wh? women were without dress-makers, and man' chief object in life was to christen animals a he met them, and to abstain from apples wis dom, and full dress." ^^ "The Idiot is right," said the Biblioma- niac " It would not be a very good thing for the world if every day wer! Sunday' Wash-day is a necessity of life. I am will- ing to admit this, in the face of the fact that wash-day meals are invariably atrocious Contracts would be void, as a rule, because* bunday is a dies non." "A what.?" asked the Idiot. " A non-existent day in a business sense '' put in the School-master. "Of course," said the landlady, scornful- ly. "Any person who knows anythina knows that." ** "Then, madame," returned the Idiot ris- ing from his chair, and putting a handful of sweet crackers in his pocket-" then I must put ma claim for $104 from you, having been charged at the rate of one dollar a day for 104 dies 710ns in the two years I have been with you." " Indeed !" returned the lady, sharply. Very well. And I shall put in a counter- laim for the lunches you carry away from ireakfast every morning in your pockets." In that event we'll call it off, madame," eturned the Idiot, as with a courtly bow nd a pleasant smile he left the room. " Well, I call him ' off,' " was all the land- idy could say, as the other guests took heir departure. And of course the School-master agreed irith her. VII " Our streets appear to be as far from per- fect as ever," said the Bibliomaniac with a sigh, as he looked out through the window at the great pools of water that gathered in the basins made by the sinking of the Bel- gian blocks. " We'd better go back to the cowpaths of our fathers." ij " There is a great deal in what you say,""( observed the School -master. "The cow-- path has all the solidity of mother earth, , and none of the distracting noises we get from the pavements that obtain to-day. It is porous and absorbs the moisture. The Belgian pavement is leaky, and lets it run into our cellars. We might do far worse than to go back — " " Excuse me for having an opinion," said the Idiot, " but the man of enterprise can't afford to indulge in the luxury of the som- nolent cowpath. It is too quiet. It con- duces to sleep, which is a luxury business en cannot afford to indulge in too freely, [an must be up and doing. The prosperity a great city is to my mind directly due its noise and clatter, which effectually at a stop to napping, and keep men at all mes wide awake." This is a Welsh-rabbit idea, I fancy," lid the School-master, quietly. He had iverheard the Idiot's confidences, as re- jsaled to the genial Imbiber, regarding the ources of some of his ideas. " Not at all," returned the Idiot. " These leas are beef— not Welsh -rabbit. They re the result of much thought. If you will ut your mind on the subject, you will see or yourself that there is more in my theory lan there is in yours. The prosperity of a reality is the greater as the noise in its icinity increases. It is in the quiet neigh- orhood that man stagnates. Where do find great business houses ? Where do /e find great fortunes made ? Where do /e find the busy bees who make the honey hat enables posterity to get into Society nd do nothing ? Do we pick up our mill- ons on the cowpath .^ I guess not. Do \e erect our most princely business houses along the roads laid out by our bovine si ter ? I think not. Does the man who go from the towpath to the White House tal the short cut? I fancy not. He goes ov( the block pavement. He seeks the hon- of the noisy, clattering street before h lands in the shoes of Washington. The ma who sticks to the cowpath may be able t drink milk, but he never wears diamonds. " All that you say is very true, but it i not based on any fundamental principle It IS so because it happens to be so " re turned the School - master. "If it wen man's habit to have the streets laid out or the old cowpath principle in his cities he would be quite as energetic, quite as pros- perous, as he is now." "No fundamental principle involved? Ihere is the fundamental principle of all business success involved," said the Idiot warming up to his subject. " What is the basic quality in the good business man ? Alertness. What is 'alertness.?' Wide- awakeishness. In this town it is impossi- ble for a man to sleep after a stated hour, and for no other reason than that the clat- ter of the pavements prevents him. As a romoter of alertness, where is your cow- ath ? The cowpaths of the Catskills, and le all know the mountains are riddled by \m, didn't keep Rip Van Winkle awake, nd I'll wager Mr. Whitechoker here a ear's board that there isn't a man in his pngregation who can sleep a half-hour— jiuch less twenty years— with Broadway ^ithin hearing distance. " I tell you, Mr. Pedagog," he continued, it is the man from the cowpath who gets iuncoed. It's the man from the cowpath. .^ho can't make a living even out of what le calls his ' New York Store.' It is the nan from the cowpath who rejoices be- :ause he can sell ten dollars' worth of .heap's -wool for five dollars, and is hap- )y when he goes to meeting dressed up in a -dollar suit of clothes that has cost him our- Aventy." '- Your theory, my young friend," observed .he School-master, "is as fragile as this ;up "—tapping his coffee-cup. " The coun- tryman of whom you speak is up and doing long before you or I or your successful merchant, who has waxed great on noise as you put it, is awake. If the early bird 62 catches the worm, what becomes of yoi theory ?" " The early bird does get the bait," r phed the Idiot. " But he does not catc the fish, and I'll offer the board anoth( wager that the Belgian block merchar IS wider awake at 8 a.m., when he fin opens his eyes, than his suburban brothe who gets up at at five is all day. It's th extent to which the eyes are opened tha counts, and as for your statement that thi fact that prosperity and noisy streets g( hand in hand is true only because it hap pens to be so, that is an argument whicl may be applied to any truth in existence. ] am because I happen to be. not because ] am. You are what you are because you are, because if you were not, you would not be what you are." "Your logic is delightful," said the School-master, scornfully. "I strive to please," replied the Idiot. " But I do agree with the Bibliomaniac that our streets are far from perfection," he added. "In my opinion they should be laid in strata. On the ground-floor should be the sewers and telegraph pipes ; above I 63 tiis should be the water-mains; then a lyer for trucks ; then a broad stratum for arriages, above which should be a prome- lade for pedestrians. The promenade for >edestrians should be divided into four sec- ions— one for persons of leisure, one for hose in a hurry, one for peddlers, and one or beggars." 'Highly original," said the Bibliomaniac. ' And so cheap," added the School-mas- er. ■■ In no part of the world," said the Idiot, n response to the last comment, " do we ret something for nothing. Of course this ,cheme would be costly, but it would in- crease prosperity—" "Ha! ha '."laughed the School-master, satirically. " Laugh away, but you cannot gainsay my point. Our prosperity would increase, for we should not be always excavating to get at our pipes ; our surface cars with a clear track would gain for us rapid transit , !our truck-drivers would not be subjected to the temptations of stopping by the way-side to overturn a coupe, or to run down a pe- destrian ; our fine equipages would- in con- 64 sequence need fewer repairs ; and as f( the pedestrians, the beggars, if relegated i themselves, would be forced out of busine; as would also the street-peddlers. The me in a hurry would not be delayed by louncrer beggars, and peddlers, and the loun-ei would derive inestimable benefit from'th arrangement in the saving of wear and tea on their clothes and minds by contact witl the busy world." ''It would be delightful," acceded the School -master, "particularly on Sundays when they were all loungers." " Yes " replied the Idiot. "It would be delightful then, especially in summer, when covered with an awning to shield prome- naders from the sun." Mr. Pedagog sighed, and the Bibliomani- ac wearily declining a second cup of coffee left the table with the Doctor, earnestly, discussing with that worthy gentleman thil causes of weakmindedness. VIII 'There's a friend of mine up near River- iale," said the Idiot, as he unfolded his lapkin and let his bill flutter from it to the ioor, " who's tried to make a name for him- self in literature." 'What's his name?" asked the Biblio- naniac, interested at once. " That's just the trouble. He hasn't made t yet," replied the Idiot. " He hasn't suc- :eeded in his courtship of the Muse, and Deyond himself and a few friends his name s utterly unknown." ' What work has he tried ?" queried the School-master, pouring unadmonished two bortions of skimmed milk over his oat- neal. ' A little of everything. First he wrote a lovel. It had an immense circulation, and fie only lost $300 on it. All of his friends ;ook a copy — I've got one that he gave me — and I believe two hundred newspapers were fortunate enough to secure the book for review. His father bought two, and tried to obtain the balance of the edition, but didn't have enough money. That was gratifying, but gratification is more apt to,J deplete than to strengthen a bank account."' " I had not expected so extraordinarily wise an observation from one so unusually unwise," said the School-master, coldly. ; " Thank you," returned the Idiot. " But ' I think your remark is rather contradictory. You would naturally expect wise observa- tions from the unusually unwise; that is, if your teaching that the expression ' unusual- ly unwise' is but another form of the ex- pression 'usually wise' is correct. But, as-: I was saying, when the genial instructor of| youth interrupted me with his flattery," con- tinued the Idiot, " gratification is gratifying but not filling^, so my friend concluded that he had better give up novel-writing and try jokes. He kept at that a year, and managed to clear his postage-stamps. His jokes were good, but too classic for the tastes of the editors. Editors are peculiar. They have no respect for age — particularly in the matter of jests. Some of my friend's 1 jokes had seemed good enough for Plutarcli to print when he had a publisher at his mercy, but they didn't seem to suit the high and mighty products of this age who sit in judgment on such things in the comic-paper offices. So he gave up jokes." " Does he still know you ?" asked the landlady. " Yes, madame," observed the Idiot. " Then he hasn't given up all jokes," she retorted, with fine scorn. " Tee-he-hee !" laughed the School-mas- ter. " Pretty good, Mrs. Smithers — pretty good." " Yes," said the Idiot. " That is good, and, by Jove! it differs from your butter, Mrs. Smithers, because it's entirely fresh. It's good enough to print, and I don't think the butter is." "What did your friend do next.?" asked Mr, Whitechoker. " He was employed by a funeral director in Philadelphia to write obituary verses for, memorial cards." " And was he successful ?" " For a time ; but he lost his positioi because of an error made by a careless compositor in a marble - yard. He had written, " ' Here lies the hero of a hundred fights- Approximated he a perfect man; He fought for country and his country's rights, And in the hottest battles led the van.'" " Fine in sentiment and in execution !" observed Mr. Whitechoker. "Truly so," returned the Idiot. "But when the compositor in the marble-yard got it engraved on the monument, my friend was away, and when the army post that was to pay the bill received the monument, the quatrain read, " ' Here lies the hero of a hundred flights — Approximated he a perfect one; He fought his country and his country's rights, And in the hottest battles led the run.' " "Awful !" ejaculated the Minister. " Dreadful!" said the landlady, forgetting to be sarcastic. " What happened ?" asked the School- master. " He was bounced, of course, without a cent of pay, and the company failed the next week, so he couldn't make anything by suing for what they owed him." " Mighty hard luck," said the Biblio- maniac. " Very ; but there was one bright side to the case," observed the Idiot. " He man- aged to sell both versions of the quatrain afterwards for five dollars. He sold the original one to a religious weekly for a dollar, and got four dollars for the other one from a comic paper. Then he wrote an anecdote about the whole thing for a Sun- day newspaper, and got three dollars more out of it." "And what is your friend doing now.''" asked the Doctor. " Oh, he's making a mint of money now, but no name." "In literature.^" "Yes. He writes advertisements on sal- ary," returned the Idiot. " He is writing now a recommendation of tooth-powder in i Indian dialect." " Why didn't he tr}'- writing an epic .''" said the Bibliomaniac. "Because," replied the Idiot, "the one aim of his life has been to be original, and i ' HE GAVE UP JOKES he couldn't reconcile that with epic po- etry." At which remark the landlady stooped over, and recovering the Idiot's bill from under the table, called the maid, and osten- tatiously requested her to hand it to the Id- iot. He, taking a cigarette from his pocket, thanked the maid for the attention, and roll- ing the slip into a taper, thoughtfully stuck one end of it into the alcohol light under the coffee-pot, and lighting the cigarette with it, walked nonchalantly from the room. IX " I've just been reading a book," began the Idiot. " I thought you looked rather pale," said the School-master, "Yes," returned the Idiot, cheerfully, "it made me feel pale. It was about the pleas- ures of country life ; and when I contrasted rural blessedness as it v/as there depicted with urban life as we live it, I felt as if my youth were being thrown away. I still feel as if I were wasting my sweetness on the desert air," " Why don't you move ?" queried the Bibliomaniac, suggestively, " If I were purely selfish I should do so at once, but I am, like my good friend Mr. M-^hitechoker, a slave to duty. I deem it my duty to stay here to keep the School- master fully informed in the various branch- es of knowledge which are day by day opened up, many of which seem to be so far beyond the reach of one of his conserv- ative habits ; to assist Mr. Whitechoker in his crusades against vice at this table and elsewhere; to give the Bibliomaniac the' benefit of my advice in regard to those pre- ' cious little tomes he no longer buys — to make life worth the living for all of you, to say nothing of enabling Mrs. Smithers to keep up the extraordinarily high standard of this house by means of the hard-earned stipend I pay to her every Monday morn- ing." "Every Monday?" queried the School- master. " Every Monday," returned the Idiot. " That is, of course, every Monday that I pay. The things one gets to eat in the country, the air one breathes, the utter freedom from restraint, the thousand and more things one enjoys in the suburbs that are not attainable here — it is these that make my heart yearn for the open." " Well, it's all rot," said the School-mas- ter, impatiently. " Country life is ideal only in books. Books do not tell of run- ning for trains through blinding snow- storms; writers do not expatiate on the LITTLE GARDEN OF MY OWN, WHERE I COULD RAISE AN OCCASIONAL CAN OF TOMATOES ' " delights of waking on cold winter nights and finding your piano and parlor furni- ture afloat because of bursted pipes, with the plumber, like Sheridan at Winchester, twenty miles away. They are dumb on the subject of the ecstasy one feels when pushing a twenty-pound lawn-mower up and down a weed patch at the end of a wearisome hot summer's day. They are silent — " " Don't get excited, Mr. Pedagog, please," interrupted the Idiot. " I am not contem- plating leaving you and Mrs. Smithers, but I do pine for a little garden of my own, where I could raise an occasional can of tomatoes. I dream sometimes of getting milk fresh from the pump, instead of twenty- four hours after it has been drawn, as we do here. In my musings it seems to me to be almost idyllic to have known a spring chicken in his infancy ; to have watched a hind-quarter of lamb gambolling about its native heath before its muscles became adamant, and before chopped-up celery tops steeped in vinegar were poured upon it in the hope of hypnotizing boarders into the belief that spring lamb and mint-sauce lay before them. What care I how hard it is to rise every morning before six in winter to thaw out the boiler, so long as the night coming finds me seated in the ge- nial glow of the gas log! What man is he that would complain of having to bale out his cellar ev- ery week, if, on the other hand, that cellar gains thereby a fertility that -'^»V^ keeps its floor sheeny, soft, and green — an interior tennis-court — from spring to spring, causing the glad- I some click of the i lawn - mower to be heard within its walls all through the still watches of \//' A HIND-QUAKTER OF LAMB GAMBOLLING ABOUT ITS NATIVE heath' " 78 the winter day ? I tell you, sir, it is the life to lead, that of our rural brother. I do not believe that in this whole vast city there is a cellar like that— an in-door gar- den-patch, as it were," " No," returned the Doctor; "and it is a good thing there isn't. There is enough} sickness in the world without bringing any i of your rus ideas in urbe. I've lived in the country, sir, and I assure you it is not whatt it is written up to be. Country life is mis- ery, melancholy, and malaria," " You must have struck a profitable sec- tion, Doctor," returned the Idiot, taking possession of three steaming buckwheat cakes to the dismay of Mr. Whitechoker, who was about to reach out for them him- self. " And I should have supposed that your good business sense would have re- strained you from leaving." " Then the countryman is poor — always poor," continued the Doctor, ignoring the Idiot's sarcastic comments. " Ah ! that accounts for it," observed the Idiot. " I see why you did not stay ; for what shall it profit a man to save a patient if prac- tice, like virtue, is to be its own reward .^" * Your suggestion, sir," retorted the Doc- or, " betrays an unhealthy frame of mind." "That's all right. Doctor," returned the diot ; " but please do not diagnose the i-ase any further. I can't afford an expert bpinion as to my mental condition. But to heturn to our subject : you two gentlemen iippear to have had unhappy experiences n country life— quite different from those Df a friend of mine who owns a farm. He ioesn't have to run for trains ; he is inde- pendent of plumbers, because the only pipes in his house are for smoking purposes. The farm produces corn enough to keep his family supplied all the year round and to sell a balance at a profit. Oats and wheat are harvested to an extent which keeps the cattle and declares dividends besides. He never suffers from the cold or heat. He is never afraid of losing his house or barns by fire, because the whole fire department of the neighboring village is, to a man, in love with the house-keeper's daughter, and is al- ways on hand in force. The chickens are ! the envy and pride of the county, and there are so many of them that they have to take turns in going to roost. The pigs are the 8o most intelligent of their kind, and are sc happy they never grunt. In fact, every- thing is lovely and cheap, the only thing that hangs high being the goose." "'the gladsome click of the lawn-mower'" " Quite an ideal, no doubt," put in the School-master, scornfully. " I suppose his is one of those model farms with steam- pipes under the walks to melt the snow in Inter, and of course there is a vein of coal rowing right up into his furnace ready to e lit." Yes," observed the Bibliomaniac; "and doubt the chickens lay eggs in every tyle — poached, fried, scrambled, and boiled. he weeds in the garden grow so fast, I fliippose, that they pull themselves up by he roots ; and if there is anything left un- one at the end of the day I presume tramps 1 dress suits, and courtly in manner, spring ut of the ground and finish up for him." *' I'll bet he's not on good terms with his eighbors if he has everything you speak of 1 such perfection. These farmers get {rightfully jealous of each other," asserted he Doctor, with a positiveness that seemed o be born of experience. " He never quarrelled with one of them n his life," returned the Idiot. " He doesn't mow them well enough to quarrel with hem ; in fact, 1 doubt if he ever sees them Lt all. He's very exclusive." "Of course he is a born farmer to get everything the way he has it," suggested Mrs. Smithers. " No, he isn't. He's a broker," said the 6 L 82 Idiot, " and a very successful one. I so him on the street every day." " Does he employ a man to run the farm }'■ asked the Clergyman. " No," returned the Idiot, " he has to( much sense and too few dollars to do am such foolish thing as that." "It must be one of those self-winding' stock farms," put in the School -master scornfully. "But I don't see how he car! be a successful broker and make money of, his farm at the same time. Your state- ments do not agree, either. You said he| never had to run for trains." " Well, he never has," returned the Idiot, calmly. " He never goes near his farm. He doesn't have to. It's leased to the husband of the house-keeper whose daughter has a' crush on the fire department. He takes his pay in produce, and gets more than if^ he took it in cash on the basis of the New York vegetable market." "' Then you have got us into an argument about country life that ends— " began the School-master, indignantly. " That ends where it leaves off," retorted the Idiot, departing with a smile on his lips. 83 ' He's an Idiot from Idaho," asserted the BibHomaniac. ♦Yes; but I'm afraid idiocy is a Httle contagious," observed the Doctor, with a grin and sidelong glance at the School- master. " Good -MORNING, gentlemen," said the' Idiot, as he seated himself at the breakfast- table and glanced over his mail, " Good-morning yourself," returned the Poet. "You have an unusually large num ber of letters this morning. All checks, hope ?" "Yes," replied the Idiot. "All checks of one kind or another. Mostly checks on ambition — otherwise, rejections from my friends the editors." " You don't mean to say that you write for the papers.''" put in the School-master, with an incredulous smile. "I try to," returned the Idiot, meekly. " If the papers don't take 'em, I find them useful in curing my genial friend who im- bibes of insomnia." "What do you write — advertisements.'*" queried the Bibliomaniac. " No. Advertisement writing is an art to 8s which I dare not aspire. It's too great a tax on the brain," replied the Idiot. " Tax on what ?" asked the Doctor. He was going to squelch the Idiot. " The brain," returned the latter, not ready to be squelched. " It's a little thing people use to think with, Doctor. I'd ad- vise you to get one." Then he added, " I write poems and foreign letters mostly." " I did not know that you had ever been abroad," said the clergyman. 53 YOU DON T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE PAPERS?'" " I never have," returned the Idiot. " Then how, may I ask," said Mr. White- choker, severely, " how can you write for- eign letters ?" " With my stub pen, of course," replied the Idiot. " How did you suppose — with an oyster-knife?" The clergyman sighed. " I should like to hear some of your po- ems," said the Poet. " Very well," returned the Idiot. " Here's one that has just returned from the Be?tgal Monthly. It's about a writer who died some years ago. Shakespeare's his name. You've heard of Shakespeare, haven't you, Mr. Ped- agog.^" he added. Then, as there was no answer, he read the verse, which was as follows : SETTLED. Yes ! Shakespeare wrote the plays — 'tis clear to me. Lord Bacon's claim's condemned before the bar. He'd not have penned, "what fools these mortals be!" But — more correct — "what fools these mortals are!" " That's not bad," said the Poet. " Thanks," returned the Idiot. " I wish you were an editor. I wrote that last spring, and it has been coming back to me at the rate of once a week ever since." " It is too short," said the Bibliomaniac. " It's an epigram," said the Idiot. " How many yards long do you think epigrams should be ?" The Bibliomaniac scorned to reply. " I agree with the Bibliomaniac," said the School-master. "It is too short. People want greater quantity." " Well, here is quantity for you," said the Idiot. " Quantity as she is not wanted by nine comic papers I wot of. This poem is called : '"THE TURNING OF THE WORM. " ' How hard my fate perhaps you'll gather in, My dearest reader, when I tell you that I entered into this fair world a twin — The one was spare enough, the other fat. " * I was, of course, the lean one of the two. The homelier as well, and consequently In ecstasy o'er Jim my parents flew. And good of me was spoken accident'ly. " * As boys we went to school, and Jim, of course. Was e'er his teacher's favorite, and ranked Among the lads renowned for moral force. Whilst I was every day right soundly spanked. Jim had an angel face, but there he stopped. I never knew a lad who'd sin so oft And look so like a branch of heaven lopped From off the parent trmik that grows aloft. I seemed an imp— indeed 'twas often said That I resembled much Beelzebub. My face was freckled and my hair was red— The kind of looking boy that men call scrub. Kind deeds, however, were my constant thought ; In everything I did the best I could; I said my prayers thrice daily, and I sought In all my ways to do the right and good. On Saturdays I'd do my Monday's sums. While Jim would spend the day in search of fun ; He'd sneak away and steal the neighbors' plums, And, strange to say, to earth was never run. Whilst I, when study-time was haply through. Would seek my brother in the neighbor's orchard; Would find the neighbor there with anger blue, And as the thieving culprit would be tortured. The sums I'd done he'd steal, this lad forsaken, Then change my work, so that a paltry four Would be my mark, whilst he had overtaken The maximum and all the prizes bore. In later years we loved the self-same maid ; We sent her little presents, sweets, bouquets, For which, alas ! 'twas I that always paid ; And Jim the maid now honors and obeys. We entered politics — in different roles. And for a minor office each did run. 'Twas I was left — left badly at the polls, Because of fishy things that Jim had done. ' When Jim went into business and failed, I signed his notes and freed him from the strife Which bankruptcy and ruin hath entailed On them that lead a queer financial life. Then, penniless, I learned that Jim had set Aside before his failure — hard to tell!-- A half a million dollars on his pet — His Mrs. Jim — the former lovely Nell. That wearied me of Jim. It may be right For one to bear another's cross, but I Quite fail to see it in its proper light. If that's the rule man should be guided by. And since a fate perverse has had the wit To mix us up so that the one's deserts Upon the shoulders of the other sit, No matter how the other one it hurts, I am resolved to take some mortal's life ; Just when, or where, or how, I do not reck, So long as law will end this horrid strife And twist my dear twin brother's sinful neck.'" " There," said the Idiot, putting down the manuscript. " How's that ?" " I don't like it," said Mr. Whitechoker. " It is immoral and vindictive. You should accept the hardships of life, no matter how^ unjust. The conclusion of your poem ho rifles me, sir. I — " " Have you tried your hand at dialect po. try ?" asked the Doctor. " Yes ; once," said the Idiot. " I sent it l the Grea^ Western Weekly. Oh yes. Hei it is. Sent back with thanks. It's an 0( tette written in cigar-box dialect." " In wh-a-at .?" asked the Poet. " Cigar-box dialect. Here it is : " ' O Manuel garcia alonzo, Colorado especial H. Clay, Invincible flora alphonzo, Cigarette panatella el rey, Victoria Reina selectas — O twofer madura grand^ — O conchas oscuro perfectas, You drive all my sorrows away.'" " Ingenious, but vicious," said the School master, who does not smoke. " Again thanks. How is this for a son net y said the Idiot : " ' When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought. And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste : Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow. For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancel'd woe, And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight : Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, ' Which I now pay as if not paid- before. But if the while I think of thee, dear friend ! All losses are restored and sorrows end.' " " It is bosh !" said the School-master. The Poet smiled quietly. " Perfect bosh !" repeated the School-mas- fcr. " And only shows how in weak hands beautiful a thing as the sonnet can be ;iade ridiculous." • "What's wrong with it ?" asked the Idiot. " It doesn't contain any thought— or if it oes, no one can tell what the thought is. j^'our rhymes are atrocious. Your phrase- ology is ridiculous. The whole thing is bad. ifou'll never get anybody to print it." I do not intend to try," said the Idiot, neekly. *' You are wise," said the School-master, to take my advice for once." " No, it is not your advice that restrains he," said the Idiot, dryly. 'It is the act that this sonnet has already been Drinted." "In the name of Letters, where?" crie the School-master. " In the collected works of William Shak( speare," replied the Idiot, quietly. The Poet laughed ; Mrs. Smithers's ey( filled with tears ; and the School-master fc once had absolutely nothing to say. XI ; " Do you believe, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot, taking his place at the table, and holding his plate up to the light, apparently to see whether or not it was immaculate, whereat the landlady sniffed contemptu- ously — "do you believe that the love of money is the root of all evil ?" " I have always been of that impression," returned Mr. Whitechoker, pleasantly. " In fact, I am sure of it," he added. " There is no evil thing in this world, sir, that cannot be traced back to a point where greed is found to be its main-spring and the source I of its strength." i " Then how do you reconcile this with the scriptural story of the forbidden fruit.? Do you think the apples referred to were figures of speech, the true import of which was that Adam and Eve had their eyes on the original surplus.?" " Well, of course, there you begin to— 96 ah— you seem to me to be going back t( the — er— the — ah — " "Original root of all evil," prompted th( Idiot, calmly. " Precisely," returned Mr. Whitechoker with a sigh of relief. "Mrs. Smithers, li think I'll have a dash of hot- water in mj; coffee this morning." Then, with a nervous glance towards the Idiot, he added, address- ing the Bibliomaniac, " I think it looks like rain." "Referring to the coffee, Mr. White- choker.?" queried the Idiot, not disposed to let go of his victim quite so easily. "Ah — I don't quite follow you," replied the Minister, with some annoyance. " You said something looked like rain, and I asked you if the thing you referred to was the coffee, for I was disposed to agree with you," said the Idiot. " I am sure," put in Mrs. Smithers, "that a gentleman of Mr. Whitechoker's refine- ment would not make any such insinuation, sir. He is not the man to quarrel with what is set before him." " I ask your pardon, madam," returned the Idiot, politely. " I hope that I am not I 98 the man to quarrel with my food, eithe Indeed, I make it a rule to avoid unpleas| antness of all sorts, particularly with th weak, under which category we find you cofifee, I simply wish to know to what M Whitechoker refers when he says 'it look like rain.' " "I mean, of course," said the Ministeri with as much calmness as he could comJ mand— and that was not much — " I mear| the day. The day looks as if it might b( ' rainy." "Any one with a modicum of brain knowf-' what you meant, Mr. Whitechoker," volun-ii teered the School-master. ; "Certainly," observed the Idiot, scraping| the butter from his toast; "but to thosef who have more than a modicum of brainsi my reverend friend's remark was not en-^ tirely clear. If I am talking of cotton, and a gentleman chooses to state that it looks like snow, I know exactly what he means.^ He doesn't mean that the day looks like snow, however ; he refers to the cotton. Mr. Whitechoker, talking about cofifee, chooses to state that it looks like rain, which it undoubtedly does. I, realizing ;hat, as Mrs. Smithers says, it is not the gentleman's habit to attack too violently 'he food which is set before him, manifest some surprise, and, giving the gentleman the benefit of the doubt, afford him an op- portunity to set himself right." "Change the subject," said the Biblio- maniac, curtly. " With pleasure," answered the Idiot, fill- ing his glass with cream. "We'll change the subject, or the object, or anything you choose. We'll have another breakfast, or ! another variety of biscuits frappe — ^ny- " thing, in short, to keep peace at the table. Tell me, Mr. Pedagog," he added, " is the use of the word ' it,' in the sentence ' it looks like rain,' perfectly correct?" " I don't know why it is not," returned the School-master, uneasily. He was not at all desirous of parleying with the Idiot. "And is it correct to suppose that 'it' refers to the day— is the day supposed to look like rain ?— or do we simply use ' it 'to express a condition which confronts us ?" " It refers to the latter, of course." " Then the full text of Mr. Whitechoker's remark is, I suppose, that ' the rainy condi- tion of the atmosphere which confronts us| looks Hke rain ?' " " Oh. I suppose so," sighed the School- master, wearily. " Rather an unnecessary sort of statement that !" continued the Idiot. " It's some- thing like asserting that a man looks like himself, or, as in the case of a child's primer — " 'See the cat.?' " 'Yes, I see the cat.' " ' What is the cat ?" " ' The cat is a cat. Scat cat !' " At this even Mrs. Smithers smiled. " I don't agree with Mr. Pedagog," put in the Bibliomaniac, after a pause. Here the School - master shook his head warningly at the Bibliomaniac, as if to indi- cate that he was not in good form. " So I observe," remarked the Idiot. "You have upset him completely. See how Mr. Pedagog trembles?" he added, address-i ing the genial gentleman who occasionally! imbibed. " I don't mean that way," sneered the Bibliomaniac, bound to set Mr. Whitechoker straight. " I mean that the word ' it,' as em-: I "'l BELIEVE you'd BLOW OUT THE GAS IN YOUR BED-ROOM ' " ployed in that sentence, stands for day. Thi day looks like rain," "Did you ever see a day?" queried th( Idiot. " Certainly I have," returned the Biblio maniac. " What does it look like ?" was the calml] put question. The Bibliomaniac's impatience was here almost too great for safety, and the mannei in which his face colored aroused consid- erable interest in the breast of the Doctor, who was a good deal of a specialist in apoplexy. " Was it a whole day you saw, or only a' half-day }" persisted the Idiot. " You may think you are very funny, retorted the Bibliomaniac. " I think you are*—" "Now don't get angry," returned the Idiot. " There are two or three things I do not know, and I'm anxious to learn. I'd like to know how a day looks to one to whom it is a visible object. If it is visi- ble, is it tangible.? and, if so, how does it feel.?" " The visible is always tangible," asserted the School-master, recklessly. i03 " How about a red - hot stove, or mani- fest indignation, or a view from a mountain- top, or, as in the case of the young man in the novel who ' suddenly waked,' and, ' look- ing anxiously about him, saw no one ?' " re- turned the Idiot, imperturbably. " Tut !" ejaculated the Bibliomaniac. " If I had brains like yours, I'd blow them out." "Yes, I think you would," observed the Idiot, folding up his napkin. " You're just the man to do a thing like that. I believe you'd blow out the gas in your bedroom if there wasn't a sign over it requesting you not to." And filling his match-box from the landlady's mantel supply, the Idiot hurried from the room, and soon after left the house. XII "If my father hadn't met with reverses — " the Idiot began. " Did you really have a father ?" interrupt- ed the School-master. " I thought you were one of these self-made Idiots. How terri- ble it must be for a man to think that he is responsible for you !" "Yes," rejoined the Idiot; "my father finds it rather hard to stand up under his responsibility for me ; but he is a brave old gentleman, and he manages to bear the bur- den very well with the aid of my mother — for I have a mother, too, Mr. Pedagog. A womanly mother she is, too, with all the nat- ural follies, such as fondness for and belief in her boy. Why, it would soften your heart to see how she looks on me. She thinks I am the most everlastingly brilliant man she ever knew — excepting father, of course, who has always been a hero of heroes in her eyes, because he never rails at misfortune, never spoke an unkind word to her in his life, anc just lives gently along and waiting for th( end of all things." " Do you think it is right in you to de- ceive your mother in this way— making hei think you a young Napoleon of intelleci when you know you are an Idiot ?" observec the Bibliomaniac, with a twinkle in his eye " Why certainly I do," returned the Idiot calmly. " It's my place to make the old folks happy if I can ; and if thinking me nine- teen different kinds of a genius is going tc fill my mother's heart with happiness, I'm going to let her think it. What's the use of destroying other people's idols even if we do know them to be hollow mockeries ? Do you think you do a praiseworthy act, for in- stance, when you kick over the heathen's stone gods and leave him without any at all ? You may not have noticed it, but I have- that it is easier to pull down an idol than it is to rear an ideal. I have had idols shat- tered myself, and I haven't found that the pedestals they used to occupy have been rented since. They are there yet and emp- ty—standing as monuments to what once seemed good to me — and I'm no happier nor ino better for being disillusioned. So it is with my- mother. I let her go on and think me perfect. It does her good, and it does me good because it makes me try to live up to that idea of hers as to what I am. If she had the same opinion of me that vv^e all have she'd be the most miserable woman in the world." " We don't all think so badly of you," said the Doctor, rather softened by the Idiot's remarks. "No," put in the Bibliomaniac. "You are all right. You breathe normally, and you have nice blue eyes. You are graceful and pleasant to look upon, and if you'd been born dumb we'd esteem you very highly. It is only your manners and your theories that we don't like ; but even in these we are dis- posed to believe that you are a well-mean- ing child." " That is precisely the way to put it," as- sented the School-master. " You are harm- less even when most annoying. For my own part, I think the most objectionable feature about you is that you suffer from that un- fortunately not uncommon malady, extreme youth. You are young for your age, and if io8 you only wouldn't talk, I think we should get on famously together." " You overwhelm me with your compli- ments," said the Idiot. " I am sorry I am so young, but I cannot be brought to believe that that is my own fault. One must live to attain age, and how the deuce can one livel when one boards ?" ' As no one ventured to reply to this ques- tion, the force of which very evidently, how- ever, was fully appreciated by Mrs. Smithers, the Idiot continued : "Youth is thrust upon us in our infancy, and must be endured until such a time as Fate permits us to account ourselves cured. It swoops down upon us when we have neither the strength nor the brains to resent it. Of course there are some superior per- sons in this world who never were young. Mr. Pedagog, I doubt not, was ushered into this world with all three sets of teeth cut, and not wailing as most infants are, but dis- cussing the most abstruse philosophical problems. His fairy stories were told him, if ever, in words of ten syllables ; and his fa- ther's first remark to him was doubtless an inquiry as to his opinion on the subject of I I THOUGHT MY FATHER A MEAN-SPIRITED ASSASSIN Latin and Greek in our colleges. It's all right to be this kind of a baby if you like that sort of thing. For my part, I rejoice to think that there was once a day when I thought my father a mean-spirited assassin, because he wouldn't tie a string to the moon, and let me make it rise and set as suited my sweet will. Babies of Mr. Pedagog's sort are fortunately like angel's visits, few and far between. In spite of his stand in the matter, though, I can't help thinking there was a great deal of truth in a rhyme a friend of mine got off on Youth, It fits the case. He said : " 'Youth is a state of being we attain In early years; to some 'tis but a crime— And, like the mumps, most aged men complain, It can't be caught, alas I a second time.'" " Your rhymes are interesting, and your reasoning, as usual, is faulty," said the School-master. " I passed a very pleasant childhood, though it was a childhood devot- ed, as you have insinuated, to serious rather than to flippant pursuits. I wasn't particu- : larly fond of tag and hide-and-seek, nor do I think that even as an infant I ever cried for the moon." " It would have expanded your chest if ^'011 had, Mr. Pedagog," observed the Idiot, quietly- " So it would, but I never found myself short-winded, sir," retorted the School-mas- ter, with some acerbity. "That is evident; but go on," said the Idiot. " You never passed a childish youth nor a youthful childhood, and therefore Iwhat?" " Therefore, in my present condition, I am normally contented. I have no youthful fol- ilies to look back upon, no indiscretions to regret ; I never knowingly told a lie, and — " " All of which proves that you never were young," put in the Idiot ; " and you will ex- icuse me if I say it, but my father is the i model for me rather than so exalted a per- I sonage as yourself. He is still young, though I turned seventy, and I don't believe on his 'own account there ever was a boy who played hookey more, who prevaricated of- tener, who purloined others' fruits with greater frequency than he. He was guilty of every crime in the calendar of youth ; and if there is one thing that delights him more than another, it is to sit on a winter's night before the crackling log and tell us yarn: about his youthful follies and his boyhooc indiscretions." "But is he normally a happy man?' queried the School-master. " No." " Ah !" " No. He's an ^^normally happy man, be- cause he's got his follies and indiscretionSj to look back upon and not forward to." " Ahem !" said Mrs. Smithers. "Dear me!" ejaculated Mr. Whitechoker. Mr. Pedagog said nothing, and the break- fast-room was soon deserted. XIIT There was an air of suppressed excite- ment about Mrs. Smithers and Mr. Pedagog as they sat down to breakfast. Something had happened, but just what that something was no one as yet knew, although the ge- nial old gentleman had a sort of notion as to what it was. " Pedagog has been good-natured enough for an engaged man for nearly a week now," he whispered to the Idiot, who had asked him what he supposed was up, " and I have a half idea that Mrs. S. has at last brought him to the point of proposing." " It's the other way, I imagine," returned the Idiot. " You don't really think she has rejected him, do you ?" queried the genial old gen- tleman. " Oh no ; not by a great deal. I mean that I think it very likely that he has brought her to the point. This is leap-year, you 4rice. mm: ^'f -^^^ .-3^ ^. ^ '"'^^ .^' ■^p^<^ # .^■ v\>' '^^ i^ MMA ^^ '""j^^T/m^ ^^^ "^. ^^*.^'o^^ ^0' Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proce: Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 i% PreservationTechnologii A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVAT 111 Thomson Park Drive «-,-,„Kor^^, Tr,iA;nc:hin PA 1 6066 - , X -^ LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 015 863 500 8