"You do it," said the Poet; "I really don't think I could do the subject justice." The Idiot got out a pencil and a pad of paper and began. "I don't think I'll make it a triolet," he said, after biting the end of his pencil for a few moments. "A whole ton is a good deal to cram into a triolet. I'll just make it a plain poem of the go-as-you-please variety instead, eh?" "In the manner of Whitman, perhaps?" suggested the Poet, dryly. "Just so," said the Idiot. "In the manner of Whitman; in fact, I think the manner of Whitman is the only manner for the poetic description of a ton of coal." He began to scribble on the pad. "I'm going to call this 'Content,'" he said in a few moments. "Contentment strikes me as the main lesson a ton of coal teaches." He scribbled on, and in four or five minutes he put down his pencil and read the following lines: "I'm glad I'm not as men are-- Always worrying about something, and often about nothing; About what was and what wasn't; Fretting about what may be and what might have been; Wondering whether when they are called upon to do their duty They'll be able to do it, And generally deciding they won't, To their own discomfort. And if so be they're women, Cogitating from morn till night, From night till morn, Wherewithal shall they be clothed, And if their hats are on straight! Yea! I am glad I am not like one of these, But am myself-- A ton of coal--jetty in my blackness and luminous in my bituminosity. Lying here in the cellar content and not bothering a bit. Not needing income or clothes, and wearing no hat, and with no complexion to bother about. Happy and serene about my duty, Certain that I shall succeed when the time for action comes; Knowing that I shall burn, And in the burning glow like the polar star. Cackling and crackling, Hissing and smoking, Full of heat, A satisfaction to mankind, And never worth less than $5.65, delivered! Ah, me! What bliss to be a ton of coal! I am content." The Poet nodded his pleasure at the effort. "It is charmingly put," he said. "I must confess, my dear Idiot, that the idea of contentment is the last one that I should ever have extracted from contemplation of a binful of anthracite, and yet when I consider how you put it I wonder it has not occurred to every one. You have the manner of the Whitman parodist down fine, too." "Thank you," said the Idiot. "It is entirely natural to me. I think, too, that using the Whitman lack of form carries with it the notion of the coal sliding down the chute, don't you? Coal runs into the cellar in such an irresponsible, formless way, eh?"