"It must be one of those self-winding stock farms," put in the School-master, scornfully. "But I don't see how he can be a successful broker and make money off his farm at the same time. Your statements 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.

"He's an Idiot from Idaho," a.s.serted the Bibliomaniac.

"Yes; but I'm afraid idiocy is a little contagious," observed the Doctor, with a grin and sidelong glance at the School-master.

X

"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 number of letters this morning. All checks, I 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 imbibes of insomnia."

"What do you write--advertis.e.m.e.nts?" queried the Bibliomaniac.

"No. Advertis.e.m.e.nt writing is an art to 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 advise 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'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. Whitechoker, severely, "how can you write foreign 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 poems," said the Poet.

"Very well," returned the Idiot. "Here's one that has just returned from the _Bengal Monthly_. It's about a writer who died some years ago.

Shakespeare's his name. You've heard of Shakespeare, haven't you, Mr.

Pedagog?" 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'WE WOOED THE SELF-SAME MAID'"]

"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 quant.i.ty."

"Well, here is quant.i.ty for you," said the Idiot. "Quant.i.ty 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 trunk 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 Sat.u.r.days 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.