Here the Bibliomaniac took a small paper from his pocket and read the following lines: "THE HUNGRY BIBLIOMANIAC "If only you would cut your books As often as your butter, When people ask you what's inside You wouldn't sit and sputter. The reading that hath made _you_ full, The reading that doth chain you, Is not from books, or woman's looks, But fresh from off the menu." "What do you think of that?" asked the Bibliomaniac, with a chuckle, as he folded up his valentine and stowed it away in his pocket once more. "I think I can spot the sender," said the Idiot, fixing his eyes sternly upon the Poet. "It takes genius to get up a rhyme like 'menu' and 'chain you,' and I know of only one man at this board or at any other who is equal to the task." "If you mean me," retorted the Poet, flushing, "you are mightily mistaken. I wouldn't waste a rhyme like that on a personal valentine when I could tack it on to the end of a sonnet and go out and sell it for two-fifty." "Then you didn't do it, eh?" demanded the Idiot. "No. Did you?" asked the Poet, with his eyes twinkling. "Sir," said the Idiot, "if I had done it, would I have had the unblushing effrontery to say, as I just now did say, that its author was a genius?" "Well, we're square, anyhow," said the Poet. "You cast me under suspicion, to begin with, and it was only fair that I should whack back. I got a valentine myself, and I suspect it was from the same hand. It runs like this: "TO THE MINOR POET "You do not pluck the fairy flowers That bloom on high Parnassus, Nor do you gather thistles like Some of those mystic asses Who browse about old Helicon In hope to fill their tummies; Yours rather are those dandy-lines-- Gilt-topped chrysanthemummies-- Quite pleasant stuff That ends in fluff-- Yet when they are beholden Make all the world look golden." "Well," ejaculated the Idiot, "I don't see what there is in that to make you angry. Seems to me there's some very nice compliments in that. For instance, your stuff when 'tis 'beholden Makes all the world look golden,' according to your anonymous correspondent. If he'd been vicious he might have said something like this: '--withal so supercilious They make the whole earth bilious.'" The Poet grinned. "I'm not complaining about it. It's a mighty nice little verse, I think, and my only regret is that I do not know who the chap was who sent it. I'd like to thank him. I had an idea you might help me," he said, with a searching glance. "I will," said the Idiot. "If the man who sent you that ever reveals his identity to me I will tell him you fell all over yourself with joy on receiving his tribute of admiration. How did you come out, Doctor?"