"Not in the slightest degree," observed the Doctor. "This is the healthiest neighborhood in town. The trouble with you is that you have a swampy mind, and it is the miasmatic oozings of your intellect that reduce you to the condition of physical flabbiness of which you complain. You might swallow the United States Steel Trust, and it wouldn't help you a bit, and ten thousand bottles of nerve-milk, or any other tonic known to science, would be powerless to reach the seat of your disorder. What you need to stiffen you up is a pair of those armored trousers the Crusaders used to wear in the days of chivalry, to bolster up your legs, and a strait-jacket to keep your back up." "Thank you, kindly," said the Idiot. "If you'll give me a prescription, which I can have made up at your tailor's, I'll have it filled, unless you'll add to my ever-increasing obligation to you by lending me your own strait-jacket. I promise to keep it straight and to return it the moment you feel one of your fits coming on." The Doctor's response was merely a scornful gesture, and the Idiot went on: "It's always seemed a very queer thing to me that this season of the year should be so popular with everybody," he said. "To me it's the mushiest of times. Mushy bones; mushy poetry; mush for breakfast, fried, stewed, and boiled. The roads are mushy; lovers thaw out and get mushier than ever. "In the spring the blasts of winter all are stilled in solemn hush. In the spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of mush. In the spring--" "You ought to be ashamed of yourself to trifle with so beautiful a poem," interrupted the Bibliomaniac, indignantly. "Who's trifling with a beautiful poem?" demanded the Idiot. "You are--'Locksley Hall'--and you know it," retorted the Bibliomaniac. "Locksley nothing," said the Idiot. "What I was reciting is not from 'Locksley Hall' at all. It's a little thing of my own that I wrote six years ago called 'Spring Unsprung.' It may not contain much delicate sentiment, but it's got more solid information in it of a valuable kind than you'll find in ten 'Locksley Halls' or a dozen Etiquette Columns in the _Lady's Away From Home Magazine_. It has saved a lot of people from pneumonia and other disorders of early spring, I am quite certain, and the only person I ever heard criticise it unfavorably was a doctor I know who said it spoiled his business." "I should admire to hear it," said the Poet. "Can't you let us have it?" "Certainly," replied the Idiot. "It goes on like this: