"Here's one on the opening of the opera season," said the Idiot: "Now the fiddlers tune their fiddles To the lovely taradiddles Of old Wagner, Mozart, Bizet, and the rest. Now the trombone is a-tooting Out its scaley shute-the-chuteing And the oboe is hoboing with a zest. "Now the dressmakers are working-- Not a single minute shirking-- Making gowns with frills and fal-lals mighty queer, For the Autumn days are flying, And there's really no denying That the season of the opera is near." Mr. Brief took a hand in the discussion at this moment. "Then you can have a blanket verse," he said, scribbling with his pencil on a piece of paper in front of him. "Something like this: "And as Time goes on a-stalking, And the Idiot still is talking In his usual blatant manner, loud and free, With his silly jokes and rhyme, It is--well it's any time From Creation to the jumping-off place that you'll find at the far end of Eterni-tie." "That settles it," said the Idiot, rising. "I withdraw my proposition. Let's call it off, Mr. Poet." "What's the matter?" asked Mr. Brief. "Isn't my verse good?" "Yes," said the Idiot. "Just as good as mine, and that being the case it isn't worth doing. When lawyers can write as good poetry as real poets, it doesn't pay to be a real poet. I'm going in for something else. I guess I'll apply for a job as a motorman, and make a name for myself there." "Can a motorman make a name for himself?" asked the Doctor. "Oh yes," said the Idiot. "Easily. By being civil. A civil motorman would be unique." "But he wouldn't make a fortune," suggested the Poet. "Yes he would, too," said the Idiot. "If he could prove he really was civil, the vaudeville people would pay him a thousand dollars a week and tour the country with him. He'd draw mobs." With which the Idiot left the dining-room. "I think his poems would sell," smiled Mrs. Pedagog. "Yes," said Mr. Pedagog. "Chopped up fine and properly advertised, they might make a very successful new kind of breakfast food--provided the paper on which they were written was not too indigestible." XIII HE DISCUSSES THE MUSIC CURE "Good-morning, Doctor," said the Idiot, as Capsule, M.D., entered the dining-room, "I am mighty glad you've come. I've wanted for a long time to ask you about this music cure that everybody is talking about, and get you, if possible, to write me out a list of musical nostrums for every-day use. I noticed last night, before going to bed, that my medicine-chest was about run out. There's nothing but one quinine pill and a soda-mint drop left in it, and if there's anything in the music cure, I don't think I'll have it filled again. I prefer Wagner to squills, and, compared to the delights of Mozart, Hayden, and Offenbach, those of paregoric are nit."