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Title: The Idiot at Home

Author: John Kendrick Bangs

Illustrator: F. T. Richards

Release date: May 12, 2012 [eBook #39682]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
        scanned images of public domain material from the Internet
        Archive.


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IDIOT AT HOME ***




Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Internet
Archive.









[Illustration: Book Cover]




[Illustration: JOHN KENDRICK BANGS]




The Idiot at Home


By
John Kendrick Bangs


Illustrated by
F. T. Richards


[Illustration]


NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS _Publishers_
1900




BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BOOMING OF ACRE HILL. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, $1.25.

THE ENCHANTED TYPEWRITER. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

COFFEE AND REPARTEE and THE IDIOT. 1 vol. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

THE DREAMERS: A CLUB. Illustrated by EDWARD PENFIELD. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

A REBELLIOUS HEROINE, A Story. Illustrated by W. T. SMEDLEY. 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges, $1.25.

A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE STYX. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

THE PURSUIT OF THE HOUSE-BOAT. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

PASTE JEWELS. Being Seven Tales of Domestic Woe. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.00.

GHOSTS I HAVE MET, AND SOME OTHERS. With Illustrations by NEWELL, FROST,
and RICHARDS. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.

THE BICYCLERS, AND THREE OTHER FARCES. Illustrated, 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

PEEPS AT PEOPLE. Illustrated by EDWARD PENFIELD. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

MR. BONAPARTE OF CORSICA. Illustrated by H. W. MCVICKAR. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.

THE WATER GHOST, AND OTHERS. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental $1.25.

THREE WEEKS IN POLITICS. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50 cents.

       *       *       *       *       *

NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Copyright, 1900, by JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.




TO
"MISS BANGS OF LONDON"

FROM
"MR. BARNES OF NEW YORK"




CONTENTS


                                                                    PAGE
     I. BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION                                         1
    II. A LITTLE DINNER TO SOME OLD FRIENDS                           21
   III. IN THE LIBRARY                                                43
    IV. AS TO A SMALL DINNER                                          63
     V. ON THE MAINTENANCE OF AN ATTIC                                84
    VI. THE IDIOT'S GARDEN                                           105
   VII. HOUSEHOLD POETRY                                             125
  VIII. SOME CONSIDERATION OF THE HIRED MAN                          145
    IX. ON SOCIAL ACCOUNTS                                           165
     X. AS TO SANTA CLAUS                                            185
    XI. AS TO NEW-YEAR'S DAY                                         205
   XII. SOME DOMESTIC INTENTIONS                                     228
  XIII. A SUBURBAN COMPLICATION                                      249
   XIV. SOME CONSIDERATION OF THE MOTH                               269
    XV. SOME CONSIDERATION OF THE BURGLAR                            288
   XVI. CONCLUSION                                                   301




ILLUSTRATIONS


                                                                    PAGE
  JOHN KENDRICK BANGS                                     _Frontispiece_
  "POSSESSED A LIBRARY OF FIRST EDITIONS"                              5
  "'THEY NEVER HAD THE FUN OF BUYING THEM'"                            9
  "'GUARANTEED TO HANG ONTO A GARMENT IN A GALE'"                     13
  "'AND SOME PEOPLE SAY WAGNER IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN THAT'"          17
  "TOMMY AND MOLLIE GAVE THE COOK A GREAT DEAL OF TROUBLE"            23
  "'LET THE FATHERS LOOK AFTER THE CHILDREN AT NIGHT'"                29
  "A LITTLE FIGURE CLAD IN WHITE"                                     35
  "'I'D RATHER BE SPANKED THAN NOT NOTICED AT ALL'"                   39
  "'I DID NOT SMOKE UNTIL I WAS FIFTY'"                               45
  "'SMOKING KEEPS INSECTS FROM THE PLANTS'"                           49
  "THE BIBLIOMANIAC WAS INVESTIGATING THE CONTENTS OF THE LOWER
      SHELVES"                                                        53
  "'I PREFERRED TO PAY THE $49.50'"                                   57
  "THE COOK HAD TAKEN WINGS ONTO HERSELF"                             65
  "'TWO BIG BOXES OF POTATOES, A CAN OF FRENCH PEASE, AND A BOTTLE
      OF SARSAPARILLA'"                                               69
  "'THE PEOPLE DOWN-STAIRS BORROWED OUR DINING-ROOM CHAIRS'"          75
  "'WHO WAS IT?' ASKED MRS. IDIOT"                                    79
  "'I SET OFF A GIANT CRACKER UNDER HIS CHAIR'"                       87
  "'WOULD HANG THAT PORTRAIT UPON THE WALL OF MY BEDROOM'"            91
  "'STARTED TO PREACH WITH THE RECIPE FOR A WASHINGTON PIE'"          95
  "'A LITTLE BUNDLE OF MY OWN LETTERS'"                              101
  "'WE SPRINKLED IT IN PERSON'"                                      107
  "'HE DISCOVERED THE ONE PERFECT STALK'"                            111
  "'IT WOULD DE DEUCEDLY AWKWARD ... IF THEY WOULD EXPLODE IN THE
      MOUTH OF THE PERSON WHO WAS EATING THEM'"                      115
  "SHE COULD SLAM THEM DOWN ON THE HEARTH-STONES LIKE TORPEDOES'"    119
  "'THE JOYS AND WOES OF THE TOILERS WHO MINED IT'"                  127
  "'FOR THOUGH I'M BUT A CARPET-TACK,'" ETC.                         131
  "'I SHOULD HESITATE TO TRY TO DRIVE A CANAL-BOAT'"                 137
  "'I HAVEN'T EVER HAD A HOME; I'VE ALWAYS BOARDED'"                 141
  "'I FEEL THAT I COULD GO OUT AND MOW THREE ACRES OF GRASS'"        147
  "'HE WOULD GO OUT DAY AFTER DAY AND SIT DOWN BESIDE IT'"           151
  "'HE SHOVELS OFF A FOOT-PATH'"                                     155
  "'SPEND A WHOLE DAY ON ONE WINDOW'"                                161
  "'WELL, I'M FOND OF GOLF'"                                         167
  "'AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL TEA'"                                         171
  "'THE BABY IS ROCKED TO SLEEP EVERY NIGHT'"                        175
  "'POOR DICK DAWKINS ISN'T TAKEN CARE OF AT ALL'"                   179
  "'DR. PREACHLY ONLY GOT EIGHT PAIRS LAST XMAS'"                    189
  "'A CHINA DOLL TO THE DAUGHTER OF A CARPENTER'"                    193
  "'HULLO, SONNY! HAD A GOOD TIME?'"                                 197
  "'I GAVE MY DOLLY AWAY TO-DAY'"                                    201
  "'I DON'T QUITE CATCH YOUR DRIFT'"                                 207
  "'I FELT AS IF I HAD SWALLOWED AN OVERSHOE'"                       213
  "'I FOUND EIGHT SANDWICHES AND A PINT OF SALTED ALMONDS'"          219
  "'THEY WERE FOUND SOME DAYS LATER WHEN THE ROOM WAS PUT IN
      ORDER'"                                                        223
  "'THERE'S NOT MUCH MONEY IN STOCKS'"                               231
  "'A NICE LITTLE BASKET-HAT ON HER HEAD TO HOLD THE PINS IN'"       235
  "'AN ELECTRIC NOTICE TO QUIT'"                                     239
  FINDING OUT WHAT IS BEING COOKED FOR DINNER                        245
  "'COURTING HIS BEST GIRL ON SOME OTHER FELLOW'S STONE WALL'"       251
  "'HOLDING UP A GREAT OSAGE ORANGE'"                                255
  "'THE PICTURE OF A HEART WITH AN ARROW DRAWN THROUGH IT'"          259
  "'IT TOOK MY HIRED MAN TWO WEEKS TO SCRUB IT OUT'"                 265
  "'AN UNPAID GROCER'S BILL BECOMES AN ABSOLUTE PLEASURE'"           271
  "'THE LION, THE ELEPHANT, THE TIGER, ALL HAVE THEIR WORK TO DO'"   275
  "'THEY EAT UP MY NEW CLOTHES'"                                     279
  "'WASTED MY ENERGY UPON THE UNRESPONSIVE AIR'"                     283




I

BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION


"My dear," said the Idiot one morning, as he and his good wife and the
two little ones, Mollie and Tommy, sat down at the breakfast-table, "now
that we are finally settled in our new house I move we celebrate. Let's
give a dinner to my old friends of Mrs. Smithers's; they were nice old
people, and I should like to get them together again. I saw Dr. Pedagog
in the city yesterday, and he inquired most affectionately, not to say
anxiously, about the children."

"Why should he be anxious about the children?" asked Mrs. Idiot,
placidly, as she sweetened her husband's coffee. "Does he suspect them
of lacking completeness or variety?"

The Idiot tapped his forehead significantly.

"He didn't know whether they take after you or after me, but I relieved
his mind on that score," he said. "I told him that they didn't take
after anybody that either of us ever knew. They have started in on a
line of Idiocy that is entirely their own. He seemed very much pleased
when I said that, and observed that he was glad to hear it."

Mrs. Idiot laughed.

"It was very nice of the Doctor to ask about them, but I am a little
afraid he wants to take a hand in their bringing up," she said.

"No doubt of it," said the Idiot. "Pedagog always was anxious to
experiment. Many a time I have suspected him of having designs even on
me."

"Mrs. Pedagog told me last year that he had devised an entirely new
system of home training," observed Mrs. Idiot, "and they both regretted
that they had no children of their own to try it on."

"And of course you offered to lend Tommy to them?" said the Idiot, with
a sly glance at his son, who was stowing away his oatmeal at a rate that
bade fair to create a famine.

"Of course," said Mrs. Idiot. "He's got to get raw material somewhere,
and I thought Tommy would be just the thing."

"Well, I ain't a-goin'," said Tommy, helping himself liberally and for
the third time to the oatmeal.

"My son," said the Idiot, with a mock show of sternness, "if your mother
chooses to lend you to any one it is not for you to say that you 'ain't
a-goin'. It may be that I shall interfere to the extent of demanding to
know what security for your safe return is offered, but otherwise
neither you nor I shall intervene. What your mother says is law for you
as well as for me. Please understand that, Thomas."

"All right, pa," said Tommy; and then he added in an undertone,
presumably to the butter, "But I ain't a-goin', just the same."

"I'll go," said Mollie, who rather liked the idea of being lent to
somebody, since it involved a visit to some strange and therefore
fascinating spot away from home. "Lend me to somebody, will you, mamma?"

"Yes, ma, lend Mollie to 'em," said Tommy, with, a certain dry
enthusiasm, "and then maybe you can borrow a boy from somebody else for
me to play with. I don't see why you don't swap her off for a boy,
anyhow. I like her well enough, but what you ever wanted to buy her for
in the beginning I don't know. Girls isn't any good."

"Thomas," said the Idiot, "you talk too much, and, what is more, you say
vain things which some day you will regret. When you get older you will
recall this dictum of yours, that 'girls isn't any good,' with a blush
of shame, and remember that your mother was once a girl."

"Well, she's outgrown it," said Tommy; and then reverting to his
father's choice of words, he added, "What is dictums, anyhow?"

"Pooh!" cried the little girl. "Smarty don't know what dictums is!"

"Suppose you two young persons subside for a few minutes!" interrupted
the Idiot. "I wish to talk to your mother, and I haven't got all day.
You'll be wanting some bread and butter to-morrow, and I must go to town
and earn it."

"All right, pa," said Tommy. "I ain't got anything to say that I can't
say to myself. I'd rather talk to myself, anyhow. You can be as sassy--"

"Thomas!" said the Idiot, severely.

"All right, pa," said Tommy; and with a side remark to the cream-jug,
that he still thought Mollie ought to be swapped off for something, it
didn't matter what as long as it wasn't another girl, the boy lapsed
into a deep though merely temporary silence.

"You said you'd like to give a dinner to Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog and the
others," said Mrs. Idiot. "I quite approve."

"I think it would be nice," returned the Idiot. "It has been more than
six years since we were all together."

"You wouldn't prefer having them at breakfast, would you?" asked Mrs.
Idiot, with a smile. "I remember hearing you say once that breakfast was
your best time."

"How long is six years, pa?" asked Tommy.

"Really, Thomas," replied the Idiot, severely, "you are the most absurd
creature. How long is six years!"

"I meant in inches," said Tommy, unabashed. "You always told me to ask
you when I wanted to know things. Of course, if you don't know--"

"It's more'n a mile, I guess," observed Mollie, with some superiority of
manner. "Ain't it, pa?"

The Idiot glanced at his wife in despair.

"I don't think, my dear, that I am as strong at breakfast as I used to
be," said he. "There was a time when I could hold my own, but things
seem to have changed. Make it dinner; and, Tommy, when you have deep
problems to solve, like how long is six years in inches, try to work
them out for yourself. It will fix the results more firmly in your
mind."

"All right, pa," replied Tommy; "I thought maybe you knew. I thought you
said you knew everything."

[Illustration: "POSSESSED A LIBRARY OF FIRST EDITIONS"]

In accordance with the Idiot's suggestion the invitations were sent out.
It was a most agreeable proposition as far as his wife was concerned,
for the Idiot's old associates, his fellow-boarders at Mrs.
Smithers-Pedagog's "High-Class Home for Single Gentlemen," had proved
to be the stanchest of his friends. They had, as time passed on, gone
their several ways. The Poet had made himself so famous that even his
bad things got into print; the Bibliomaniac, by an unexpected stroke of
fortune, had come into possession of his own again, and now possessed a
library of first editions that auctioneers looked upon with envious
eyes, and which aroused the hatred of many another collector. The Doctor
had prospered equally, and was now one of the most successful operators
for appendicitis; in fact, could now afford to refuse all other practice
than that involved in that delicate and popular line of work. The genial
gentleman who occasionally imbibed had not wholly reformed, but, as the
Idiot put it, had developed into one who occasionally did _not_ imbibe.
Mr. Brief had become an assistant district attorney, and was prominently
mentioned for a judgeship, and Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog lived placidly along
together, never for an instant regretting the inspiration which led them
to economize by making two into one. In short, time and fortune had
dealt kindly with all, even with Mary, the housemaid, who was now
general manager of the nursery in the Idiot's household.

The home life of "Mr. and Mrs. Idiot" had been all that either of the
young people could have wished for, and prosperity had waited upon them
in all things. The Idiot had become a partner in the business of his
father-in-law, and even in bad times had managed to save something,
until now, with two children, aged five and six, he found himself the
possessor of his own home in a suburban city. It had been finished only
a month when the proposed dinner was first mentioned, and the natural
pride of its master and mistress was delightful to look upon.

"Why, do you know, my dear," said the Idiot one evening, on his return
from town, "they are talking of asking me to resign from the club
because they say I am offensive about this place, and Watson says my
conversation has become a bore to everybody because the burden of my
song yesterday was pots and pans and kettles and things like that?"

"I suppose clubmen are not interested in pots and pans and kettles and
things," Mrs. Idiot observed. "Some people aren't, you know."

"Not interested?" echoed the Idiot. "What kind of people can they be not
to be interested in pots and pans and kettles and things? I guess it's
because of their dense ignorance."

[Illustration: "'THEY NEVER HAD THE FUN OF BUYING THEM'"]

"They never had the fun of buying them, perhaps," suggested Mrs. Idiot.

[Illustration: "'GUARANTEED TO HANG ONTO A GARMENT IN A GALE'"]

"Possibly," assented the Idiot. "And I'll tell you one thing, Pollie,
dear," he added, "if they had had that fun just once, instead of
squandering their savings on clothes and the theatre, and on horses,
you'd find every blessed one of those chaps thronging the hardware shops
all day and spending their money there. Why, do you know I even enjoyed
getting the clothes-pins, and what is more, it was instructive. I never
knew before what countless varieties of clothes-pins there were. There's
the plain kind of commerce that look like a pair of legs with a polo-cap
on. I was brought up on those, and I used to steal them when I was a
small boy, to act as understudies for Noah and Shem and Ham and Japheth
in my Noah's ark. Then there's the patent kind with a spring to it that
is guaranteed to hang onto a garment in a gale if it has to let go of
the rope. Very few people realize the infinite variety of the
clothes-pin, and when I try to tell these chaps at the club about it
they yawn and try to change the subject to things like German opera and
impressionism and international complications."

"How foolish of them!" laughed Mrs. Idiot. "The idea of preferring to
talk of Wagner when one can discourse upon clothes-pins!"

"I am afraid you are sarcastic," rejoined the Idiot. "But you needn't
be; if you'd only reason it out you'd see at once that my view is
correct. Anybody can talk about Wagner. Any person who knows a picture
from a cable-car can talk with seeming intelligence on art, and even a
member of Congress can talk about international complications off-hand
for hours; but how many of these people know about clothes-pins?"

"Very few," said Mrs. Idiot, meekly.

"Very few, indeed," observed the Idiot. "And the same way with
egg-beaters. I'll bet you a laundry-stove that if I should write to the
_Recorder_ to-morrow morning, and ask a question about Wagner, the
musical editor would give me an answer within twenty-four hours; but
with reference to egg-beaters it would take 'em a week to find out. And
that's just the trouble. The newspapers are filled up with stuff that
everybody knows about, but they don't know a thing about other things on
the subject of which the public is ignorant."

"I think," said Mrs. Idiot, reflectively, "that that is probably due to
the fact that they consider Wagner more important than an egg-beater."

[Illustration: "'AND SOME PEOPLE SAY WAGNER IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN
THAT'"]

"Well, then, they don't know, that's all," rejoined the Idiot, rising
and walking out into the kitchen and taking the fascinating object over
which he was waxing so enthusiastic from the dresser drawer. "Just look
at that!" he cried, turning the cog-wheel which set the three
intersecting metal loops whizzing like a squirrel in its wheel-cage.
"Just look at that! It's beautiful, and some people say Wagner is more
important than that."

"Well, I must say, my dear," said Mrs. Idiot, "that I have a leaning
that way myself. Of course, I admit the charm of the egg-beater, but--"

"Tell me one thing," demanded the Idiot. "Can you get along without
Wagner?"

"Why, yes," Mrs. Idiot replied, "if I have to."

"And can you get along without an egg-beater?" he cried, triumphantly.

The evidence was overwhelming, and Mrs. Idiot, with an appreciative
ebullition of mirth, acknowledged herself defeated, and so charmingly
withal, that the next day when her husband returned home he brought her
two tickets for the opera of Siegfried as a reward for her graceful
submission.

"I could have bought ten dozen muffin-rings for the same money," said
he, as he gave them to her, "but people who know when to give in, and do
give in as amiably as you do, my dear, deserve to be rewarded; and, on
the whole, when you use these tickets, if you'll ask me, I think I'll
escort you to Siegfried myself."




II

A LITTLE DINNER TO SOME OLD FRIENDS


[Illustration: "TOMMY AND MOLLIE GAVE THE COOK A GREAT DEAL OF TROUBLE"]

Ten days later all was excitement at the Idiot's new home. Tommy and
Mollie were in a state bordering upon frenzy, and gave the cook a great
deal of trouble, requesting a taste of this, that, and the other thing,
which she was preparing for the dinner to Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog, the
Bibliomaniac, and the others. Inwardly, too, they were somewhat
wrathful, for they could not understand why they were not permitted to
dine with their parents as usual.

"I guess maybe it's your manners that keeps you away, Tommy," said
Mollie.

"Hoh!" said Tommy. "It can't be that, because pa says I ain't got any.
It's because you're too young to be introdoosed into society, and I've
got to stay up-stairs and look after you. If you weren't a girl!"

Here Tommy clenched his fists and looked unutterable things. Mollie
shuddered and was glad she was a girl as she imagined the awful things
Tommy would do to her had she been a boy.

"Neither of 'em's it, Tommy," she said, in a conciliatory manner. "It's
because they ain't got enough dining-room chairs, that's why. I know,
because I counted 'em, and there's only eight, and there's nine people
comin'."

"I guess maybe that's it," said Tommy, pacified somewhat. "And anyhow, I
don't care. I saw that piece of paper ma gave Jennie, and she wrote down
all the things they're goin' to have, and it's goin' to be two hours
between the soup and the ice-cream. I couldn't ever wait that long for
the ice-cream. I don't see why they don't begin with ice-cream."

"I guess maybe we're better off as it is," said Mollie. "Popper and
mommer ain't likely to forget us, and, besides, we can talk."

And with this comforting reflection the little ones retired to their
nursery contented in mind and spirit--and they didn't suffer a bit.
Their "popper and mommer" didn't forget them. The ice-cream was
excellent, and they had their share of it almost before the guests began
with their oysters.

At seven o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog had arrived, and at seven-ten all
the invited guests were present.

"If it hadn't been for my wife," Mr. Pedagog whispered in his host's
ear, "I should have been late, too."

"Don't apologize, old man," replied the Idiot, gripping the
Schoolmaster's hand warmly. "I sometimes go to dinners on time myself."

In a few moments dinner was announced, and shortly after all were
seated, and in memory of old times the guests naturally waited for the
Idiot to begin.

"Do you know," he said, as he squeezed the juice from a luscious lemon
over an unprotesting oyster, at the same time glancing affectionately
over the company, "I haven't felt so much at home for years as I do
now."

"Not very complimentary to your wife," said Mr. Brief.

"Oh, I know what he means," observed Mrs. Idiot.

"And I have so many other opportunities to compliment her," said the
Idiot.

"But really, Mrs. Pedagog," he added, addressing the good lady who sat
at his right, "I feel absolutely contented to-night. All the good things
of the past and of the present seem to be concentrated about this
board--except the three up-stairs, who can't very well be here."

"Three?" asked Mr. Pedagog. "I thought there were only two--"

"Certainly," said the Idiot. "Tommy and Mollie, but there is Mary, your
old housemaid. We can't very well ask them to dine with us, you know."

"I don't see why Tommy and Mollie can't be invited," said Mr. Pedagog,
much to the Idiot's surprise, it seemed so like a violation of his
system, as it might be presumed to be.

"You believe in having children at table, then, Mr. Pedagog?" asked Mrs.
Idiot.

"Most certainly," said the Schoolmaster. Mrs. Pedagog glanced smilingly
at Mrs. Idiot, as much as to say, "Oh, these men!"

"I certainly do approve of having children at table on all occasions,"
he continued. "How else are they to learn how to conduct themselves? The
discipline of the nursery is apt to be lax, and it is my belief that
many of the bad table manners of the present-day child are due to the
sense of freedom which eating dinner in the nursery naturally
inculcates."

"There is something in what you say," said the Idiot. "Tommy, for
instance, never learned to throw a French pancake across the table at
his sister by watching his mother and myself here in the dining-room,
yet in the freedom of the nursery I have known it done."

"Precisely," said Mr. Pedagog. "That very little incident illustrates my
point exactly. And I have no doubt that in the nursery the offence
seemed less heinous than it would had it occurred in the dining-room,
and hence did not meet with the full measure of punishment that it
deserved."

"I have forgotten exactly what was done on that occasion," said the
Idiot, calmly. "It is my impression that I compelled Thomas to eat the
pancake."

"I am sure I never heard of the incident before," said Mrs. Idiot, her
cheeks growing very red. "He didn't really, did he, dear?"

"By jove!" cried the Idiot, snapping his forefinger against his thumb,
"what a traitor I am, to be sure. I promised Thomas never to tell, and
here I've given the poor little chap away; but the boy was excusable, I
assure you all--that is, he was excusable in a sense. Mollie had
previously hit him in the eye with a salted almond, and--"

"It is quite evident," put in Mrs. Pedagog, her womanly sympathy leading
her to rush to the aid of Mrs. Idiot, who seemed somewhat mortified over
the Idiot's confidences, "that you were not at home, my dear. I have
myself observed that extraordinary episodes of this nature generally
happen when it is the father who is left in charge of the children."

"Quite right, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Doctor, nodding his head gravely.
"I have noticed the same thing in my professional practice. As long as
the mother is about discipline is maintained, but once leave the father
in charge and riot is the order of the day."

"That's exactly what I was going to say," said the Idiot. "Many a time
when Mrs. Idiot has gone out shopping, as she did on the day in
question, and I have remained at home for a rest, I have wished
before evening came that I had gone shopping and let my wife have the
rest. As a matter of fact, the bringing up of children should be left to
the mother--"

"Oh, but the father should have something to do with it," interrupted
Mrs. Idiot. "It is too great a responsibility to place on a woman's
shoulders."

"You didn't let me finish, my dear," said the Idiot, amiably. "I was
going to say that the mother should bring the children up, and the
father should take 'em down when they get up too high."

"My views to a dot," said Mr. Pedagog, with more enthusiasm than he had
ever yet shown over the Idiot's dicta. "Just as in ordinary colonial
government, the home authorities should govern, and when necessary a
stronger power should intervene."

"Ideal--is it not?" laughed Mrs. Idiot, addressing Mrs. Pedagog. "The
mother, Spain. The children, Cuba. Papa, the great and glorious United
States!"

"Ahem! Well," said Mr. Pedagog, "I didn't mean that exactly, you know--"

"But it's what you said, John," said Mrs. Pedagog, somewhat severely.

[Illustration: "'LET THE FATHERS LOOK AFTER THE CHILDREN AT NIGHT'"]

"Well, I don't see why there can't be a division of responsibility,"
said the Poet, who had never married, and who knew children only as a
theory. "Let the mothers look after them in the daytime, and the fathers
at night."

This sally was greeted with an outburst of applause, it was so
practical.

"Excuse me!" said the Idiot. "I'm not selfish, but I don't want to have
charge of the children at night. Why, when Tommy was cutting his teeth I
suffered agonies when night came on. I was down-town all day, and so
wasn't very much bothered then, but at night it was something awful. Not
only Tommy's tooth, but the fear that his mother would tread on a tack."

"That was unselfish," said Mr. Pedagog, dryly. "You weren't afraid of
treading on one yourself."

"How could I?" said the Idiot. "I had all I could do trying to keep my
wife from knowing that I was disturbed. It is bad enough to be worried
over a crying babe, without being bothered by an irritated husband, so I
simply lay there pretending to be asleep and snoring away for dear
life."

"You are the most considerate man I ever heard of," said Mrs. Pedagog,
smiling broadly.

"You don't mean to say," said the Poet, with a frown, "that you made
your wife get up and take all the trouble and bother--"

"I'd only have been in the way," said the Idiot, meekly.

"So he kept quiet and pretended to snore like the good old Idiot that he
is," put in the Doctor. "And he did the right thing, too," he added. "If
all fathers would obliterate themselves on occasions of that sort, and
let the mothers rule, the Tommys and Dickies and Harrys would go to
sleep a great deal more quickly."

"We are rambling," said Mr. Pedagog. "The question of a father's duty
towards a teething son has nothing to do with the question of a child's
right to dine with his parents."

"Oh, I don't know," said the Idiot. "If we are to consider this matter
scientifically we must start right. Teething is a natural first step,
for if a child hath no teeth, wherewithal shall he eat dinners with his
parents or without them?"

"That is all very well," retorted Mr. Pedagog, "but to discuss
fire-engines intelligently it is not necessary to go back to the times
of Elisha to begin it."

Mr. Whitechoker--now the Rev. Theophilus Whitechoker, D.D., for he, too,
had prospered--smiled deprecatingly. There is no man in the world who
more thoroughly appreciates a biblical joke than the prosperous
clergyman.

"Well," said the Idiot, reflectively, "I quite agree with your
proposition that children should dine in the dining-room with their
parents and not up-stairs in the nursery, with a lot of tin soldiers and
golliwogs. The manners of parents are no better than those of tin
soldiers and golliwogs, but their conversation is apt to prove more
instructive; and as for the stern father who says his children must dine
in the kitchen until they learn better manners, I never had much
confidence in him or in his manners, either."

"I don't see," said the genial old gentleman who occasionally imbibed,
"how you can discipline children in the nursery. If they misbehave in
the dining-room you can send them up-stairs to the nursery, but if they
misbehave in the nursery, where the deuce can you send them?"

"To bed," said Mr. Brief.

"Never!" cried the Idiot. "Children, Mr. Brief, as I understand
them--and I have known three very well; myself as a boy, and Tommy and
Mollie--children, as I understand them, are never naughty for the mere
fun of being so. Their wickedness grows out of their wonderful stores of
unexpended and unexpendable energy. Take my son Thomas on last Saturday
afternoon, for instance. It was a rainy Saturday, and Tommy, instead of
being out-of-doors all morning and afternoon getting rid of his
superfluous vitality, had been cooped up in the house all day doing
nothing. Shortly before dinner we had a difference of opinion which
lasted for more time than I like to think about. I was tired and
irritable. Tommy wasn't tired, but he _was_ irritable, and, from his
point of view, was as right as I was. He had the best of me to the
extent that I was tired and he wasn't. I had the best of him to the
extent that I had authority and he hadn't--"

"And who came out ahead?" asked Mr. Pedagog.

"I did," said the Idiot, "because I was bigger than he was; but what I
was going to say was this: Mr. Brief would have sent him to bed,
thereby adding to the boy's stock of energy, already too great for his
little mind to control."

"And what did you do?" asked Mr. Brief.

"Nothin'," said a small but unmistakably masculine voice from behind the
portieres.

"Thomas!" said the Idiot, severely, as all turned to see who had spoken.

[Illustration: "A LITTLE FIGURE CLAD IN WHITE"]

A little figure clad in white, ably supported by a still smaller figure,
also clad in white, but with an additional ruffle about the neck, both
of them barefooted, appeared in the doorway.

"Why, Mollie!" said Mrs. Idiot.

"We comed down to thee how you wath gettin' along," said the little
girl.

"Yes, we did," said the boy. "But he didn't do a thing to me that day,"
he added, climbing on his father's knee and snuggling down against his
vest-pocket with a sweet little sigh of satisfaction. "Did you, pa?"

"Yes, Thomas," said the Idiot. "Don't you remember that I ignored you
utterly?"

[Illustration: "'I'D RATHER BE SPANKED THAN NOT NOTICED AT ALL'"]

"Yes, I do," said Tommy. "But I'd rather be spanked than not noticed at
all."

"I am afraid," said Mr. Pedagog a few hours later, as he and Mrs.
Pedagog were returning home, "I am very much afraid that the Idiot's
children are being spoiled."

"I hope they are!" returned the good lady, "for really, John, I never
knew a boy or a girl to grow into man or womanhood and amount to
anything who hadn't been spoiled in childhood. Spoiling is another name
for the attitude of parents who make comrades of their children and who
do not set themselves up as tyrants--"

"But the veneration of a child for his father and mother--" Mr. Pedagog
began.

"Should not degenerate into the awe which one feels for an unrelenting
despot!" interrupted Mrs. Pedagog.

The old gentleman discreetly retired from the field.

As for Mrs. and Mr. Idiot, they retired that night satisfied with the
evening's diversion, and just before he turned out the light the Idiot
walked into the nursery to say good-night to the children.

"You're a good old pop!" said Tommy, with an affectionate hug. "_The
best I ever had!_"

As for Mollie, she was sleeping soundly, with a smile on her placid
little face which showed that, "spoiled" as she was, she was happy; and
what should the Idiot or any one else seek to bring into a child's life
but happiness?




III

IN THE LIBRARY


The Bibliomaniac had come off into the country to spend Sunday with the
Idiot, and, as fortune would have it, Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog also appeared
on the scene. After the mid-day dinner the little party withdrew to the
library, where the Bibliomaniac began to discourse somewhat learnedly
upon his hobby.

"I am glad to see, my dear Idiot," he observed, as he glanced about the
room at the well-filled shelves, "that as you grow older you are
cultivating a love of good literature."

"I heartily echo the sentiment," said Mr. Pedagog, as he noted the
titles of some of the volumes. "I may add that I am pleasurably
surprised at some of your selections. I never knew, for instance, that
you cared for Dryden, and yet I see here on the top shelf a voluminous
edition of that poet."

"Yes," said the Idiot. "I have found Dryden very useful indeed.
Particularly in that binding and in so many volumes. The color goes very
well with the hangings, and the space the books occupy, eked out by a
dozen others of the same color, gives to that top shelf all the esthetic
effect of an attractive and tasteful frieze. Then, too, it is always
well," he added, with a sly wink at Mrs. Idiot, "to have a lot of books
for a top shelf that is difficult to reach that nothing under the canopy
could induce you to read. It is not healthful to be stretching upward,
and with Dryden upon the top shelf my wife and I are never tempted to
undermine our constitutions by taking him down."

The Bibliomaniac laughed.

"Your view is at least characteristic," said he, "and to tell you the
absolute truth, I do not know that your judgment of the literary value
of Dryden is at variance with my own. Somebody called him the Greatest
Poet of a Little Age. Perhaps if the age had been bigger he'd not have
shone so brilliantly."

"Lowell," observed Mr. Pedagog, "was responsible for that remark, if I
remember rightly, and I have no doubt it is a just one, and yet I do not
hold it up against Dryden. Man does not make the age. The age makes the
man. Had there been any inspiring influences at work to give him a
motive, an incentive, Dryden might have been a greater poet. To excel
his fellows was all that could rightly be expected of him, and that he
did."

"Assuredly," said the Idiot. "That has always been my view, and to-day
we benefit by it. If he had gone directly to oblivion, Mrs. Idiot and I
should have been utterly at a loss to know what to put on that top
shelf."

The Idiot offered his visitors a cigar.

"Thank you," said the Bibliomaniac, taking his and sniffing at it with
all the airs and graces of a connoisseur.

[Illustration: "'I DID NOT SMOKE UNTIL I WAS FIFTY'"]

"I don't know but that I will join you," said Mr. Pedagog. "I did not
smoke until I was fifty, and I suppose I ought not to have taken it up
then, but I did, and I have taken a great deal of comfort out of it. My
allowance is fifty-two cigars a year, one for each Sunday afternoon," he
added, with a kindly smile.

"Well, you want to look out you don't get smoker's heart," said the
Idiot. "When a man plunges into a bad habit as rashly as that, he wants
to pull up before it is too late."

"I have felt no ill effects since the first one," rejoined Mr. Pedagog.
"But you, my dear Idiot, how about your allowance? Is it still as great
as ever? As I remember you in the old days you were something of a
cigarette fiend."

[Illustration: "'SMOKING KEEPS INSECTS FROM THE PLANTS'"]

"I smoke just as much, but with this difference: I do not smoke for
pleasure any more, Mr. Pedagog," the Idiot replied. "As a householder I
smoke from a sense of duty. It keeps moths out of the house, and insects
from the plants."

[Illustration: "THE BIBLIOMANIAC WAS INVESTIGATING THE CONTENTS OF THE
LOWER SHELVES"]

The Bibliomaniac meanwhile had been investigating the contents of the
lower shelves.

"You've got a few rare things here, I see," he observed, taking up a
volume of short sketches illustrated by Leech, in color. "This small
tome is worth its weight in gold. Where did you pick it up?"

"Auction," said the Idiot. "I didn't buy it by weight, either. I bought
it by mistake. The colored pictures fascinated me, and when it was
put up I bawled out 'fifteen.' Another fellow said 'sixteen.' I wasn't
going to split nickels so I bid 'twenty.' So we kept at it until it was
run up to 'thirty-six.' Then I thought I'd break the other fellow's
heart by bidding fifty, and it was knocked down to me."

"That's a stiff price, but on the whole it's worth it," said the
Bibliomaniac, stroking the back of the book caressingly.

"But," said Mr. Pedagog, "if you bid on it consciously where did the
mistake come in?"

The Idiot sighed. "I meant cents," he said, "but the other chap and the
auctioneer meant dollars. I went up and planked down a half-dollar and
was immediately made aware of my error."

"But you could have explained," said Mr. Pedagog.

[Illustration: "'I PREFERRED TO PAY THE $49.50'"]

"Oh, yes," said the Idiot, "I _could_, but after all I preferred to pay
the extra $49.50 rather than make a public confession of such infernal
innocence before some sixty or seventy _habitues_ of a book-auction
room."

"And you were perfectly right!" said the Bibliomaniac. "You never would
have dared set your foot in that place again if you had explained. They
would have made life a burden to you. Furthermore, you have not paid too
dearly for the experience. The book is worth forty dollars; and to learn
better than to despise the man who makes his bid cautiously, and who
advances by small bids rather than by antelopian jumps, is worth many
times ten dollars to the man who collects rare books seriously. In the
early days I scorned to break a five-dollar bill when I was bidding,
just as you refused, as you put it, to split nickels, and many a time I
have paid as high as twenty-five dollars for books that could have been
had for twenty-one, because of that foolish sentiment."

"I have often wondered," Mr. Pedagog put in at this point, holding his
cigar in a gingerly and awed fashion, taking a puff at it between words,
by which symptoms the man who seldom smokes may always be identified, "I
have often wondered what was the mission of a private library, anyhow.
And now that I find you two gentlemen interested in a phase of
book-collecting with which I have had little sympathy myself, possibly I
may, without being offensive, ask a question. Do you, for instance,
Mr. Idiot, collect books because you wish to have something nobody else
has got, or do you buy your books to read?"

"That is a deep question," said the Idiot, "and I do not know that I can
answer it off-hand. I have already confessed that I bought Dryden for
his decorative quality. I purchased my Thackeray to read. I bought my
Pepys Diary because I find it better reading than a Sunday newspaper,
quite as gossipy, and with weather reports that are fully as reliable.
But that particular Leech I bought because of my youthful love for
colored pictures."

"But you admit that it is valuable because of its rarity, and that
compared to fifty dollars' worth of books that are not rare it is not to
be compared with them from a literary point of view?" said Mr. Pedagog.

"I presume," said the Idiot, "that the fifty dollars I expended on that
book would have provided me with a complete Shakespeare in one volume;
all of Byron in green cloth and gold top; all of Dickens, Thackeray,
Bulwer, and Austen in six volumes, with a margin of forty-five dollars
left with which for nine years I could have paid for a subscription to
the Mercantile Library, containing all the good reading of the present
day and all the standard works of the past. But I rather like to have
the books, and to feel that they are my own, even if it is only for the
pleasure of lending them."

"Still, if a man collects books merely for their contents--" persisted
Mr. Pedagog.

"He is a wild, extravagant person," said the Idiot. "He might save
himself hundreds of dollars, not to say thousands. The library on that
plan need not occupy an honored place among the rooms of the house. A
mere pigeon-hole with a subscriber's card to a circulating library filed
away in it will do as well, or if the city or town in which he lives
maintains a public library he may spare himself even that expense."

"Good for you!" exclaimed the Bibliomaniac. "That's the best answer to
the critics of book-collectors I have heard yet."

"I agree with you," said Mr. Pedagog. "It is a very comprehensive reply.
As for you, my dear Bibliomaniac, why do you collect books?"

"Because I love 'em as books," replied the Bibliomaniac. "Because of
their associations, and because when I get a treasure I have the bliss
of knowing I have something that others haven't."

"Then it is selfishness?" asked Mr. Pedagog.

"Just as everything else is," returned the Bibliomaniac. "You, sir, if I
may be personal without wishing to be offensive, are wedded to Mrs.
Pedagog. You take pleasure in knowing that she belongs to you and not to
any one else. The Idiot here is proud of his children, and is glad they
are his children and nobody else's. _I_ am wedded to my rare books, and
it rejoices my soul to pick up a volume that is unique, and to know that
it belongs to me and to no one else. If that is selfishness, then all
possession is selfish."

"That's about it," said the Idiot. "You collect books just as Mormons
and Solomon used to collect wives. You are called a Bibliomaniac. I
suppose Brigham Young and Solomon would have been known as
Gamyomaniacs--though I don't suppose that age in women as in books is a
requisite of value to marrying men--and they are both of them supposed
to be rather canny persons."

Mr. Pedagog puffed away in silence. It was evident that the _argumentum
ad hominem_ did not please him.

"Well," he said, after awhile, "possibly you are right. If a man wants a
library to be a small British Museum--"

"He will take better care of his rarities than the Idiot does," said the
Bibliomaniac, putting the rare Leech back into its place. "If that were
mine I'd put it out of the reach of my children."

"I didn't know you had any," said the Idiot, eagerly.

"Oh, you know what I mean," retorted the Bibliomaniac. "You place Dryden
on the top shelf where Tommy and Mollie cannot get at him. But this
book, which is worth ten larger paper editions of Dryden, you keep
below, where the children can easily reach it. It's a wonder to me
you've been able to keep it in its present superb condition."

"The mind of a child," said Mr. Pedagog, sententiously, "is above
values, above all conceits. It is the mind of sincerity, and a rare book
has no greater attraction to the boy or girl than one not so favored."

"That is not my reason," said the Idiot. "I know children pretty well,
and I have observed that they are ambitious, and in a sense rebellious.
They want to do what they cannot do. That is why, when mothers place jam
on the top shelf of the pantry, the children always climb up to get it.
If they would leave it on the dining-room table, within easy reach, the
children would soon cease to regard it as a thing to be sought for. Make
jam a required article of diet and the little ones will soon cease to
want it. So with that book. If I should put that out of Tommy's reach,
Tommy would lie awake nights to plan his campaign to get it. Leaving it
where it is he doesn't think about it, doesn't want it, is not forbidden
to have it, and so it escapes his notice."

"You have the right idea, the human idea," said Mr. Pedagog, and even
the Bibliomaniac was inclined to agree. But just then Tommy happened in,
with Mollie close after. The boy walked straight to the bookcase, and
Mollie gathered up the large shears from the Idiot's table, and together
they approached their father.

"Pa," said Mollie, holding up the scissors, "can I borrow these?"

"What for?" asked the Idiot.

"We want to cut the pictures out o' this," said Tommy, holding up the
fifty-dollar Leech.

After all, it is difficult to lay down a cast-iron rule as to how a
private library should be constructed or arranged, particularly when
one's loyalty is divided between one's children and one's merely bookish
treasures.




IV

AS TO A SMALL DINNER


[Illustration: "THE COOK HAD TAKEN WINGS UNTO HERSELF"]

It was sad but true. Mr. and Mrs. Idiot had invited Mr. Whitechoker and
Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog and the Poet to dinner, and for some reason or
another the cook had taken wings unto herself and flown, and the guests
were expected within two hours.

"I see now," said the Idiot, "why they call it taking French leave.
Nobody who doesn't understand French understands it. If it wasn't
French, or if somebody would translate it for us, we might be able to
comprehend it; as it is, it is one of the mysteries, and, as usual, we
must make the best of it. Life, after all, my dear, consists largely of
making the best of things."

"Well, I'm sure I don't know what to do," said Mrs. Idiot, despairfully,
"unless you telegraph them all not to come, and tell them why."

"It is too late to do that," said the Idiot, looking at his watch.
"They've probably all left home by this time. Poets and clergymen and
old people like Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog always do start an hour too early,
for fear of missing their train."

"I wouldn't care so much about the Poet," said Mrs. Idiot; "he doesn't
know enough about housekeeping, anyhow, to make it matter. But Mr.
Whitechoker and Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog--I simply can't ask them to camp
out, as it were. The very fact that Mrs. Pedagog would become
sympathetic immediately she learned what had happened would in itself be
unbearable."

"I thought women liked sympathy?" said the Idiot, with a proper
manifestation of surprise.

"So they do; but you might just as well talk about claret as meaning one
thing as of sympathy being all of the same brand," Mrs. Idiot answered.
"Certain kinds of claret are insufferable--sour and heady. I suppose
there are sixty different kinds."

"Sixty-two," said the Idiot, blandly. "The sixty you mean and two more
whose names I have forgotten."

"I wish you would be serious for a moment," Mrs. Idiot retorted, with as
near an approach to irritation as was possible to one of her amiable
disposition. "And it's just the same way with sympathy," she continued;
"Mrs. Pedagog will lay this whole trouble to my inexperience. Probably
she never had a servant take French leave in her life on the eve of a
dinner-party."

"I'll bet she didn't," said the Idiot. "And for why? Because she never
gave a dinner-party in all her life. The habits of early life cling unto
old age, and even as in her early days as a boarding-house keeper she
never gave anything, so now she doubtless considers giving a dinner as a
reckless waste of opportunity. And she is quite right. Does a lawyer
invite his friends to join him in an opinion? Never. Does Mr. Tiffany
request Mr. and Mrs. Idiot to accept a diamond tiara given in their
honor? Not. Does a true poet, with three names on his autograph, give a
poem to anybody when he can sell it? Not if he knows it. Why, then,
expect a landlady, by birth and previous training, to _give_ a dinner?"

"I notice," said Mrs. Idiot, severely, "that you are always willing to
give your views!"

[Illustration: "'TWO BIG BOXES OF POTATOES, A CAN OF FRENCH PEASE, AND A
BOTTLE OF SARSAPARILLA'"]

"Precisely, my dear, and that proves my point," replied the Idiot,
amiably. "I am not a professional viewer, and I am not a photographer by
trade. Therefore, why should I not _give_ my views? But really," he
added, "I wouldn't bother; it'll all come out right. I don't know just
how, but I am confident we shall have the most glorious dinner of our
lives. When I was down cellar this morning looking at the gas-meter I
saw two big boxes full of potatoes, a can of French pease, and a bottle
of sarsaparilla, and if they don't like what they get it will be because
they are exacting. And I'll wager you from what I know of their manners
that if you gave them dried apples, cold tongue, and milk they'd say it
was the most delightful repast they ever sat down to."

"But _I'd_ know they didn't mean it," said Mrs. Idiot, smiling in spite
of her woe.

"And that brings up the question, why should your conscience be
troubled by the insincerity of others?" said he. "Now, I'll tell you
what we'll do. You fry the potatoes and I'll boil the can of pease; I
think four minutes will boil them hard, like an egg, and together we'll
put the sarsaparilla on ice, and bluff the whole thing through. Bluffing
was always my strong point, and I have noticed, my dear, that in
whatever I have tried to do since we were married you have contributed
at least ninety per cent. to success. My bluff plus your efforts to make
the thing a go will send our dinner to a premium."

Mrs. Idiot remained properly silent. As a matter of fact, she was not
even listening. She was considering. What on earth to do was the
question in her mind, and it so entirely absorbed it that she
fortunately had little left for the rather easy views of the Idiot
himself.

"What is a dinner, anyhow?" the Idiot added, after the silence had to
his mind become oppressive. "Is it a mere meal? Do the Poet and Mr. and
Mrs. Pedagog and Mr. Whitechoker come here merely to get something to
eat? Or do they come for the pleasure of our society, or for the
pleasure of leaving home, or what? As I understand it, people go out to
dine not because they have not a sufficiency of food at home, but
because they wish to meet other people. That's what I do. I can always
have something better to eat at home than I can get at somebody else's
house; and furthermore, it is a more natural meal. Dinners generally are
made up of pretty little things that nobody likes, and have no
sustenance in them. A successful dinner lies not in successful cooking,
but in pleasing conversation. Wherefore, it is not the cook, but the
host and hostess who make a failure or a success of a dinner."

"Then I presume if we simply spread the table and let you talk our
guests will be satisfied?" said Mrs. Idiot, blandly.

"Precisely," the Idiot replied. "It will be delightful. Just think of
the menu! Instead of oysters I will indulge in a few opinions as to the
intellectual qualities of bivalves generally, finishing up with a
glowing tribute to the man who is content to be a clam and not talk too
much. In the place of _purée_ we will tackle some such subject as the
future of Spain. I think I could ladle out a few sound ideas on that
subject that would be as clear as the purest _consommé_. Then for fish,
that would be easy. A good trout story, with imagination sauce, would do
very well. For the _entrée_ I will give you one of my most recent poems,
and the roast will be--"

"And the rest of us are to sit and twiddle our thumbs while you
soliloquize?" demanded Mrs. Idiot. "I rather think not. I will provide
the roast, my dear John, and it will consist largely of remarks upon the
ways of cooks."

"A very proper subject for a roast," observed the Idiot, complacently,
"and in your present frame of mind I think it will be not only well
done, but rare as well, with plenty of crisp. And so we can simply talk
this dinner through. It will be novel, certainly, and if you provide
plenty of bread and butter no one need go away hungry."

"Very true," Mrs. Idiot answered. "And now that you have had your fun,
suppose we put our minds on the serious aspect of the case. Two hours
from now four people are coming here hungry--"

"I have it!" cried the Idiot, delightedly. "Let's _borrow_ a cook! I
don't believe it's ever been done before. It would be splendid, not
only in getting us out of our troubles, but in establishing an entirely
new principle in domestic science. What is the use of neighbors who will
not be neighborly and lend you their most cherished possession?"

"None at all," sighed Mrs. Idiot, despairingly.

[Illustration: "'THE PEOPLE DOWN-STAIRS BORROWED OUR DINING-ROOM
CHAIRS'"]

"Now, when we lived in our flat in New York the people up-stairs
borrowed our ice," said the Idiot; "the people down-stairs borrowed our
dining-room chairs; the people across the hall borrowed butter and milk
and eggs, and I think we once borrowed a lemon from the people on the
top floor."

"Never!" cried Mrs. Idiot.

"Yes, we did, my dear," insisted the Idiot. "At least I did. You and the
children were off in the country, and one hot summer's night, two years
ago, I was consumed with a desire for a glass of lemonade, and as there
were no lemons in the house, or the flat, I sent out to borrow. I began
at the basement and worked up towards the roof, and ultimately got what
I wanted, although, as I have said, it was the top-flat people I got it
from."

"And did you ever return it?" demanded Mrs. Idiot.

"I regret to say that I didn't," said the Idiot. "But I will, and with
interest. I wonder what two years' interest on a lemon is!" he added. "I
suppose that a borrowed lemon compounded at the rate of six per cent.
could be paid off by a lemon and one small Bermuda potato. I will send
my check for both to those people to-morrow. What was their name?"

"I never knew," said Mrs. Idiot. "I never liked them, and I never
called. I am sorry you are under obligations to them."

"Only for a lemon, though, dear," said the Idiot, "at six per cent."

"But what does all this prove?" demanded the poor little housekeeper.

"That the principle of lending is recognized among neighbors," the Idiot
explained. "If a neighbor will lend a lemon, surely a neighbor will lend
a cook. The principle involved is the same in both cases. Particularly
so in this case, for my experience with cooks has been that they are,
after all, for the most part nothing but human lemons. If the departed
Bridget had been anything but full of sourness she would not have left
us so unexpectedly."

"You don't really think for a moment, do you, that the Jimpsonberrys
would lend us their cook, or that she would come, or that I would ask
them?" said Mrs. Idiot.

"Well, I suppose not," said the Idiot. "I suppose not. _But I don't see
why!_ First, the Jimpsonberrys, as our neighbors, ought to be willing to
get us out of our trouble. Second, we don't ask their cook to come for
nothing. By coming she will receive an addition to her wages which will
help her to endow a policeman with a moderate fortune some day when she
marries him. As for your asking Mrs. Jimpsonberry to lend us her cook
for a few hours, that is the main objection. When one borrows one must
give collateral, and it may be that it would embarrass you to offer Mike
as security for the safe return of the Jimpsonberrys' cook. Anyhow, I
see weak points in my plan, and we'd better abandon it. If the
Jimpsonberrys' cook is the only available incendiary in the
neighborhood, we'd better stop where we are. When we dined at
Jimpsonberrys' last week I went away feeling that Jimpsonberry ought to
collect fire insurance on that dinner. It wasn't cooked; it was a plain
case of arson."

It was at this precise moment, when poor Mrs. Idiot was beginning to
despair of getting any advice of value from her husband, that the
telephone-bell rang, and the Idiot rose up to answer the call.

"Hello!" he said.

"Oh! Hello, old man!" he added. "That you? Glad to see you."

"Yes," he continued, after a pause. "Of course we expect you."

"Seven o'clock sharp," he remarked, a moment later. "You'll surely be
here?" Then after a second pause, he added:

"Good! You can stay all night if you wish; we've plenty of room.
Good-bye."

[Illustration: "'WHO WAS IT?' ASKED MRS. IDIOT"]

"Who was it?" asked Mrs. Idiot, as the Idiot hung up the receiver of the
telephone.

"The Poet," replied the Idiot. "He wanted to know at what hour dinner
was."

"Oh, dear!" cried Mrs. Idiot. "Why didn't you tell him the dinner isn't
for to-night, but to-morrow night?"

"Didn't need to, my dear," said the Idiot, lighting a cigarette. "We've
made a slight mistake. You invited these people, it now appears, for the
twenty-ninth."

"Certainly," said Mrs. Idiot.

"Well, my love," said the Idiot, with an affectionate glance, "to-day is
the--ah--the twenty-eighth."

Mrs. Idiot drew a sigh of relief.

"My!" she cried, "what a blessing! I wonder how I got so mixed!"

"It's economy, perhaps," suggested the Idiot. "If you will insist on
buying out-of-date diaries and last year's calendars at bargain-counters
because they are cheap, I don't really see how you can expect to keep up
with the times."

Mrs. Idiot laughed heartily. Her relief of mind was unmistakable.

"What would you have done, John, if this had really been the night?" she
asked later.

"Oh, I don't know," said the Idiot. "I think I should have taken you to
New York to dinner, and bluffed our guests into believing they had come
up on the wrong night. It is very easy for a host to put his guests in
the wrong if he wants to. I don't, but if I must, I must."

As it was, the family dinner that night was a great success in spite of
the absence of the cook, because Mrs. Idiot, who is an expert with the
chafing-dish, found several odds and ends in the late cook's domains,
which, under her expert manipulation, became dishes which the Idiot said
afterwards "remained long in the memory without proving too permanent a
tax upon the digestion."




V

ON THE MAINTENANCE OF AN ATTIC


The Idiot had been laid up for a week. That is to say, he was too
indisposed to attend to business at his office, and the family physician
thought it would be a good idea if his patient would be content to
remain quietly indoors for a little while. To this the Idiot cheerfully
consented.

"If there is one thing that I can do to perfection," he said, "it is
resting. Some men are born leisurely, some achieve leisure, and some are
discharged by their employers. I belong to the first two classes. I can
never become one of the third class, because, being my own employer, I
am naturally pleased with myself, and am not likely to dispense with my
own services."

And so he stayed at home, and for a week pottered about the house, as he
put it, and he had a glorious time.

"What are you going to do with yourself this morning, dear?" asked Mrs.
Idiot on the morning of the first day. "I've got to go to market, and
there are one or two other little things to be attended to which will
keep me out for some hours. Do you think you can amuse yourself while I
am out?"

"Well, I don't know," said the Idiot. "I can try. Of course, you know,
my dear, that I am a good deal of a baby yet. However, if you can trust
me to stay all by my lonesome for two or three hours I'll try to behave.
I promise not to take the piano apart, and I vow I won't steal any jam,
and I sha'n't float hair-brushes in the bath-tub pretending that they
are armored cruisers looking for Spaniards, and I'll try to be good, but
I can't make any promises."

Mrs. Idiot smiled, as an indulgent guardian should, and went forth. The
Idiot stayed at home and enjoyed himself. What he did is perhaps best
indicated by his remarks some time later at a Sunday-night tea at which
Mr. and Mrs. Pedagog, and Mr. Brief, the lawyer, were present.

"Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, "did you ever have an attic?"

"A what?" demanded the Schoolmaster, naturally somewhat nonplussed.

"An attic," said the Idiot. "A favored spot wherein to potter, to root,
to rummage."

"Why, yes," said Mrs. Pedagog, after a moment of deliberation. "I have
had an attic, but it never seemed to me to be a particularly interesting
spot. I've used it as a sort of store-room for things I didn't know what
to do with."

"Useless things," suggested Mr. Pedagog.

"Entirely so," acquiesced the good lady.

"Then if they are useless, why keep them?" queried the Idiot. "Useless
things might better be thrown away than stored away even in an attic."

"Oh, as for that," rejoined Mrs. Pedagog, "they were useless in the
sense that there was nothing I could do with them, and yet there was
generally some quality of association or something about them that so
appealed to me that I couldn't quite throw them away, or even bring
myself to give them away."

"That is the idea," said the Idiot. "One's cherished possessions are
often stored away up-stairs and forgotten, and then sometimes years
after you'll go rummaging about the house for lack of some other
employment; an old trunk, a wooden box, will be unearthed in the attic,
and then what a flood of memories will come rushing back over you as the
long-forgotten objects come to light, one by one."

"I have had much the same experience," said Mr. Brief, "in what I might
term my professional attic. We keep a room for the storage of old
papers, and strange exhibits in litigation turn up there frequently that
bring back old-time lawsuits in a most interesting fashion."

"I suppose, then," observed Mr. Pedagog, with a shrug of tolerant
contempt, "that the attic is, in your estimation, a sort of repository
for family archives."

[Illustration: "'I SET OFF A GIANT CRACKER UNDER HIS CHAIR'"]

"That's about it," said the Idiot. "You ought to see mine. There are
archives from the Ark in mine. I've got all the portraits of my
unpopular relatives up there, and such a gallery of smug-looking
individuals you never saw. There's Uncle Jedediah, who hated me because
I set off a giant cracker under his chair one Fourth of July, and who
from that day vowed I was born to be hanged; and who sent me a crayon
portrait of himself the following Christmas--"

"That seems to me to show a kindly feeling, not one of hatred, towards
you," suggested Mrs. Pedagog.

[Illustration: "'WOULD HANG THAT PORTRAIT UPON THE WALL OF MY BEDROOM'"]

"Oh no," said the Idiot, with a laugh. "You never knew my dear old Uncle
Jed. He sent it in a pure spirit of revenge. He had to send something,
and he picked out the one thing he had reason to know I didn't want; and
he was likewise aware that my mother had a sense of the proprieties and
would hang that portrait upon the wall of my bedroom, whence it could
stare at me, disapprovingly, forevermore. Still, when I became the head
of my own house, I did not take a mean-spirited revenge on Uncle
Jedediah's portrait by selling it to one of the comic papers with a joke
under it; I gave it the nicest, warmest, most comfortable spot I could
find for it under a pile of old magazines in the attic, and the other
day when it came to light again I greeted it with an affectionate smile;
and the picture of the old gentleman rising hurriedly from over the
giant cracker on that long-forgotten Fourth, brought vividly to mind by
the portrait, brought tears to my eyes, I laughed so heartily. It
really was very affecting."

Mr. Pedagog gazed at the Idiot fondly.

"You are a great boy," he said. "You'd never suspect it, but I had a
similar case of Uncle Jed, but the years I have lived since have
softened my feelings so that I remember my old relative with a certain
degree of affection."

"I shall never believe, my dear John," said Mrs. Pedagog, "that in your
day boys ever placed giant crackers under their uncles' chairs."

"We never did, my love," Mr. Pedagog responded, quickly.

"Why, of course not," laughed the Idiot. "They couldn't, you know. They
hadn't been invented. What was your trouble with Uncle Jed, Mr.
Pedagog?"

"Oh, our difference of opinion was rather of an ethical import," replied
Mr. Pedagog, genially. "My Uncle Jed was a preacher, and he used to
speak entirely from notes which he would make out the night before and
place in the pocket of his black coat. All I did was to take the notes
of his next day's sermon out of his pocket one Saturday evening, and put
in their stead a--ah--a recipe for what we called Washington pie--and a
very good pie it was."

"John!" ejaculated Mrs. Pedagog.

[Illustration: "'STARTED TO PREACH WITH THE RECIPE FOR A WASHINGTON
PIE'"]

"I _did_, my dear," confessed the Schoolmaster, "and really I have never
regretted it, although my particular uncle gave me a distressingly acrid
and dreary lecture on my certain future when he found out what had
happened. Yet what did happen, though mischievously intended, resulted
in great good, for when the dear old gentleman stood up in the pulpit
and started to preach the next morning, with the recipe for a Washington
pie as the only available note at hand, he pulled himself together and
preached off-hand the finest sermon of his life, and he discovered then
the secret of his after-success. He became known ultimately as one of
the most brilliant preachers of his time, and from that moment never
went into the pulpit with any factitious aids to his memory."

"You mean cribs, don't you?" asked the Idiot.

"That is what college-boys call them, I believe," said Mr. Pedagog. "I
will say further that a year before he died _my_ Uncle Jed told me that
it was my mischievous act that had given him the hint which became
the keynote of his eloquence," he added, complacently. "I shall always
remember him affectionately."

"Of course," said the Idiot. "No doubt we all remember our Uncle Jeds
affectionately. I certainly do. He was my mother's brother, and he meant
well. I never really blamed him for not knowing how to sympathize with a
boyish prank, because there has never been a school of instructions for
uncles. Unclehood is about the hardest hood man has to wear, and as I
have observed uncles and their habits, they either spoil or repel the
small chaps and chappesses who happen to be made their nephews and
nieces by an accident of birth. Uncles are either intensely genial or
intensely irritable, and as far as I am concerned it is my belief that
our colleges should include in their curriculum a chair of 'Uncleism.'
Unclehood is a relationship that man has to accept. It is thrust upon
him. He can't help himself. To be a father or a mother is a matter of
volition. But even in a free country like our own, if a man has a
brother or a sister he is liable to find himself an uncle at any time
whether he wishes to be one or not. Then when it happens he's got to
reason out a course of procedure without any basis in previous
experience."

"Why don't you write a book on 'Hints to Uncles,' or 'The Complete
Aunt,'" suggested Mr. Brief. "I have no doubt it would make good
reading."

"Thanks for the idea," said the Idiot. "I think I'll do it. Not in the
hope of profit, but for the benefit of the race."

"What has all this to do with attics?" asked Mrs. Idiot.

"The natural resting-place of the bad uncle," explained the Idiot.
"Still, I maintain that it is every man's duty to keep an attic for the
useless things, as Mrs. Pedagog calls them, which some day, when he
least expects it, will carry his mind back to other days. The word
itself, attic, carries the mind back to the splendors of Athens and
other things that are out of date. When I was ill I found sincerest
pleasure in rummaging. You can't rummage in a library if your library is
properly looked after. You can't rummage in a bedroom in a well-kept
house. You all know what parlors are--designed largely for the
reception of people who come out to call upon you in their best Sunday
clothes, and who would never think of calling upon you intimately, as a
friend might, in his knickerbockers. You can't rummage there. The only
place where one may rummage with any degree of success is in the attic,
and my experience has been such that I believe my recent illness has
contributed to my health. My mind has been carried back to conditions
that used to be. Conditions which existed then and which were inferior
to conditions which now prevail make me satisfied with the present.
Where old-time conditions were better than the existing one I have
naturally discovered how to improve. Rummaging, therefore, is improving
to the mind and contributes to one's contentment."

[Illustration: "'A LITTLE BUNDLE OF MY OWN LETTERS'"]

"Then there are good economical reasons for the maintenance of an
attic," the Idiot continued. "I found enough old boyhood collections of
various things there to keep Tommy and Mollie happy for years without my
having to pay out a penny for birthday presents--old stamps, old coins,
old picture papers, and, I assure you, a lot of old newspapers, too,
with better and more readable news in them than is now to be found in
any of our modern bilious journals. Then the bundles of letters that
came out of that place--my mother's letters to me, written while I was
away at school; my father's letters in the old days at your house, Mrs.
Pedagog, which did much to keep me straight then and re-reading of which
doesn't hurt now; and, best of all," he added, with an affectionate
glance at Mrs. Idiot, "a little bundle of my own letters to a certain
person tied up with a blue ribbon, and full of pressed roses and autumn
leaves and promises--"

"In the attic?" asked Mr. Brief, with a dry smile. "Is that where Mrs.
Idiot keeps your promises?"

Mrs. Idiot blushed. "I have a cedar chest full of treasures up there,"
she said. "I thought it was locked."

"Well, anyhow, I found them," said the Idiot, cheerfully; "and while
they were not especially good reading, they were good reminders of other
days. It wouldn't be a bad idea if every married man were to read over
the letters of his days of courtship once a year. I think it would bring
back more forcibly than anything else the conditions of the contract
which he was inviting the young partner of his joys to sign. If an attic
never held anything but bundles of one's old love-letters it would
demonstrate its right to become an institution."

"Very true," said the lawyer; "but," he added, prompted by that cautious
spirit which goes always with the professional giver of advice, "suppose
that side by side with that little bundle of pressed flowers and autumn
leaves and promises one should chance to find another little bundle of
pressed flowers and autumn leaves and promises--the promises written by
some other hand than the hand that is rummaging in the cedar chest? What
then? Would that prove a pleasing find?"

"Oh, as for that," the Idiot remarked, "when I advocate the maintenance
of an attic as one of the first duties of mankind, I mean its
intelligent maintenance. The thing which makes of the British Museum,
the National Attic of Great Britain, a positive educational force is its
intelligent direction. It is the storehouse of the useless possessions
of the British Empire which have an inspiring quality. There is nothing
in it which makes a Briton think less of himself or which in any way
unpleasantly disturbs his equanimity. So with the attic of the humble
citizen. It must be intelligently directed if it is to become an
institution, and should not be made the repository of useless things
which ought to be destroyed, among which I class that other possible
bundle to which you refer."

And inasmuch as the whole party agreed to the validity of this
proposition, the subject was dropped, and the Idiot and his guests
wandered on to other things.




VI

THE IDIOT'S GARDEN


"I should think, my dear Idiot," Mr. Pedagog observed one summer
evening, as his host stood upon the back piazza of "Castle Idiot," as
they had come to call the dwelling-place of their friend, "that with all
this space you have about you, you would devote some of it to a garden."

"Why, I do," said the Idiot. "I've got a small patch down there behind
the tennis-court, fifty by one hundred feet, under cultivation. The
stuff we get is almost as good as the average canned goods, too. We had
a stalk of asparagus the other night that was magnificent as far as it
went. It was edible for quite a sixteenth of an inch, or at least I was
told so. That portion of it had already been nibbled off by my son
Thomas while it was resting in the pantry waiting to be served.
However, the inedible end which arrived was quite sturdy, and might have
stood between my family and starvation if the necessity had arisen."

"One stalk of asparagus is a pretty poor crop, I should say," observed
the lawyer, with a laugh.

"You might think so," said the Idiot. "But everything in the world is
comparative, after all. Ants build ant-hills which are several feet
lower than the Alps, and yet they are monumental, considering that they
were made by ants. All things considered, Mrs. Idiot and I were proud of
our asparagus crop, and distinctly regretted that it did not survive to
be served in proper state at dinner. If I remember rightly, Thomas was
severely reprimanded for his privateering act in biting off the green
end of it before I had a chance to see it."

"'Twasn't specially good," said Tommy, loftily.

"I am very glad it was not, my son," said the Idiot. "I should be very
sorry to hear that you had derived the slightest sensation of pleasure
from your piratical and utterly inexcusable act."

"Do you usually serve so small a portion of the product of your
garden?" asked Mr. Brief.

[Illustration: "'WE SPRINKLED IT IN PERSON'"]

[Illustration: "'HE DISCOVERED THE ONE PERFECT STALK'"]

"Sometimes we don't serve anything at all from it," said the Idiot,
"which you will observe is smaller yet. In this instance Mrs. Idiot
intended a little surprise for me. We had struggled with that
asparagus-bed for some time. The madame had studied up asparagus in her
botany. I had looked it up in the cyclopedia and the Century dictionary.
We had ordered it in various styles when we dined out at the New York
hotels, and we had frequently bought cans of it in order to familiarize
ourselves more intimately with its general personal appearance. Then we
consulted people we thought would be likely to know how to obtain the
best results, and what they told us to do we did, but somehow it didn't
work. Our asparagus crop languished. We sprinkled it in person. We put
all sorts of garden cosmetics on it to improve its complexion, but it
seemed hopeless, and finally when I footed up the asparagus item in my
account-book, and discovered that we had paid out enough money without
results of a satisfactory nature to have kept us in canned asparagus for
four years, we got discouraged, and resolved to give it up. It was
while Michael, our gardener, was removing the evidences of our failure
that he discovered the one perfect stalk, and like the honest old
gardener that he is, he immediately brought it into the house and
presented it to my wife. She naturally rejoiced that our efforts had not
been entirely vain, and in her usual spirit of self-sacrifice had the
stalk cooked as a surprise for me. As I have told you, that small
circumstance Thomas, over which we seem to have no control, got ahead of
us--"

"You was surprised, wasn't you, pa?" demanded the boy.

"Somewhat, my son," said the Idiot, "but not in the way your mother had
designed, exactly."

"Is asparagus the extent of your gardening?" queried Mrs. Pedagog.

"Oh no, indeed!" replied Mrs. Idiot. "We've had peas and beets and beans
and egg-plant and corn--almost everything, in fact, including potatoes."

"Yes, ma'am," said the Idiot, "almost everything, including potatoes.
Our pea crop was lovely. We had five podfuls for dinner on the Fourth of
July, and the children celebrated the day by podding them for the
cook. They popped open almost as noisily as a torpedo. It was really
very enjoyable. Indeed, one of the results of that pea crop has been to
give me an idea by which I may some day redeem my losses on the
asparagus-bed. An explosive pea which should be edible, and yet would
pop open with the noise of a small fire-cracker, would be a delight to
the children and serviceable for the table. I don't exactly know how to
bring about the desired results, but it seems to me if I were to mix a
little saltpetre in the water with which we irrigate our pea-trees the
required snap would be obtained. Then on the Fourth of July the
children, instead of burning their fingers and filling their parents
with nervous dread setting off fire-crackers, could sit out on the back
piazza and shell the peas for the cook--"

"I'd rather shell Spangyards," said Mollie.

"I am surprised at you, my child," said the Idiot. "A little girl like
you should be an advocate of peace, not of war."

"You can't eat Spaniards, either, can you, pa?" said Tommy, who, while
he shared Mollie's views as to the comparative value for shelling
purposes of peas and Spaniards, was nevertheless quite interested in the
development of a pea-pod that would open with a bang.

"No, Tommy," said the Idiot, "you can't eat Spaniards, and they'd be
sure to disagree with you if you could."

"That is a very interesting proposition of yours," said Mr. Brief, "but
it has its dangers. A dynamite pea would prove very attractive so long
as its explosive qualities were confined to the pod and its opening. But
how are you going to keep the saltpetre out of the peas themselves?"

"That is where the difficulty comes in," said the Idiot. "I frankly
don't know how we could insulate the peas from the effects of the
saltpetre."

[Illustration: "'IT WOULD BE DEUCEDLY AWKWARD ... IF THEY WOULD EXPLODE
IN THE MOUTH OF THE PERSON WHO WAS EATING THEM'"]

"It would be deucedly awkward," observed the Bibliomaniac, "if, as might
very well happen, one or two of the peas should become so thoroughly
impregnated with the stuff that they would explode in the mouth of the
person who was eating them, like bombs in miniature."

[Illustration: "'SHE COULD SLAM THEM DOWN ON THE HEARTH-STONES LIKE
TORPEDOES'"]

"True," said the Idiot. "The only safeguard against that would be to
compel the cook to test every pea before she cooked it. She could
slam them down on the hearth-stone like torpedoes, and every one that
didn't go off could be cooked and served with safety. Still, there would
be danger even then. A careless cook might forever ruin the tooth of a
favored guest. I guess I'd better give up the idea."

"Oh, don't, pa!" cried Tommy, his interest in explosive vegetables
worked up to a high pitch. "I'll test 'em all for you, and if they work
I don't see why you couldn't raise dynamite punkins!"

"It would be a strong temptation, my son," said the Idiot, "which is all
the more reason why I should abandon the plan. A dynamite punkin, as you
call it, would wreck the whole neighborhood if one should set it off
properly. No, we will, after all, confine our attention to vegetables of
a more pacific nature. The others might prove more profitable at first,
but when the novelty of them wore off, and one realized only their
danger, a great deal of the pleasure one derives from eating fresh
vegetables would be utterly destroyed."

Tommy looked out over the railing of the piazza, deep regret and
disappointment depicted in his brown little face; but if the glitter of
his eyes meant anything it meant that the idea of putting vegetables on
a war footing was not going to be allowed to drop into oblivion; and if
the small youth progresses in inventive genius in a fair ratio to his
past achievements in that line, I have no doubt that if a Vesuvian
pumpkin _can_ be produced at all, the day will dawn when Thomas is
hailed as its inventor.

"Is it true," asked Mr. Brief, "that home-raised peas are sweeter than
any other?"

"We think so," said Mrs. Idiot.

"We know so," amended the Idiot. "That Fourth-of-July night when we ate
those five podfuls we discovered that fact. Five podfuls of peas are not
enough to feed a family of four on, so we mixed them in with a few more
that we bought at the grocer's, and we could tell ours from the others
every time, they were so much sweeter."

The Bibliomaniac laughed scornfully.

"Pooh!" said he. "How did you know that they were yours that were sweet,
and not the grocery-bought peas?"

"How does a father know his own children?" said the Idiot. "If you'd
labored over those five pods as hard and assiduously as we did, nursing
them through their infant troubles, guarding them against locusts and
potato-bugs, carefully watching their development from infancy into the
full vigor of a mature peahood, I guess you'd know your own from those
of others. It's instinct, my dear Bibliomaniac."

"Tell about the strawberry, pa," said Tommy, who liked to hear his
father talk, in which respect I fear he takes strongly after his parent.

"Well," said the Idiot, "it's not much of a story. There was one. We had
a strawberry patch twenty feet by ten. We had plenty of straw and plenty
of patch, but the berries were timid about appearing. The results were
similar to those in our asparagus venture. One berry was discovered
trying to hide itself under half a bale of straw one morning, and while
I was looking for Mrs. Idiot, to ask her to come down to the garden and
see it grow, a miserable robin came along and bit its whole interior
out. I hope the bird enjoyed it, because on a bed-rock estimate that
berry cost twenty dollars. That is one of the things about gardening
that make me especially weary. One doesn't mind spending forty-four
dollars on a stalk of asparagus that is eaten, even surreptitiously, by
a member of one's own family; but to pay twenty dollars for a strawberry
to be wasted on a fifteen-cent robin is, to say the least, irritating."

"You forget, John," said Mrs. Idiot, with a somewhat mirthful look in
her eyes, "that we got fifteen boxes out of the strawberry-patch later."

"No, I don't," said the Idiot. "I was coming to that, and it involves a
confession. You were so blue about the loss of our one beautiful berry
that I entered into a conspiracy with Michael to make that patch yield.
The fifteen boxes of berries that we took out subsequently were bought
at a New York fruit-store and judiciously scattered about the patch
where you would find them. I had hoped you would never find it out, but
when you spoke the other day of expending thirty-eight dollars on that
strawberry-patch next year, I resolved then to undeceive you. This is
the first favorable opportunity I have had."

Mrs. Idiot laughed heartily. "I knew it all along," she said. "Michael
came to me with them and asked for instructions as to where to put them.
Really, I--ah--I arranged them under the straw myself."

"What an ass a hired man can be!" ejaculated the Idiot. "I shall
discharge Michael to-morrow."

"I wish you would," said Mrs. Idiot. "Ever since the conspiracy he has
been entirely too independent."

"Don't discharge Michael, papa," said Mollie. "He's awful nice. He's
always willin' to stop anything he's doing to play with Tommy and me."

"You bet he is!" cried Tommy. "He's a dandy, Mike is. He never says a
word when I sit under the sprinkler, and he told me the other day that
his grandfather would have been king of Ireland if Queen Victoria hadn't
come in. He said the Queen was a lady, and his grandfather gave up his
seat to her because he was a gentleman and couldn't do anything else."

"Very well," said the Idiot, suavely. "Then I won't discharge Michael.
One feels a better American, a better Republican, if he has a royal
personage in his employ. I always wondered where Michael got his
imperious manner; now I know. As a descendant of a long line of kings it
could not be otherwise. I will give him another chance. But let me give
you all fair warning. If next summer Michael does not succeed in
producing from my garden four beets, ten pods of peas, three
string-beans, and less than ten thousand onions, he goes. I shall not
pay a gardener forty dollars a month unless he can raise three dollars'
worth of vegetables a year."

"But really," said Mr. Pedagog, "haven't you raised anything in your
garden?"

"Oh yes," said the Idiot. "I've raised my water bill in the garden. I
used to pay twelve dollars a quarter for water, but now the bills come
to at least twenty-five dollars. Truly, a garden is not without profit
to some one."




VII

HOUSEHOLD POETRY


"Yes," said the Idiot, in response to an inquiry from the Poet, who was
passing a Sunday with him at Castle Idiot, "I have found that there is a
great deal of poetry in the apparently uninspiring little things of a
household. There is to me as much poetry in a poker as there is in a
snow-clad Alp, if you only have an eye to find it; and I am sure that to
thousands of housewives the whole land over a sonnet to a clothes-pin,
written by one who knows the clothes-pin's nature intimately, would be
far more appealing than a similar number of lines trying to prove that
we are all miserable phantoms flitting across a morass of woe."

The Poet pulled away thoughtfully at his pipe. He was a broad-minded
poet, and while he had never owned a poker of his own, he was ready to
admit its possibilities; but he could not follow his friend closely
enough to admit that it contained as much that was inspiring as did Mont
Blanc, for instance, a bright particular Alp of which he was very fond.

The Idiot continued:

[Illustration: "'THE JOYS AND WOES OF THE TOILERS WHO MINED IT'"]

"A ton of coal contains far more warmth than a woman's eyebrow; sends
the mind of a thoughtful person chasing backward to the time when it lay
snugly hid in the fair breast of nature; to the joys and woes of the
toilers who mined it; through a variety of complexities of life, every
one of them fraught with noble thoughts. Yet who ever wrote dainty
verses to a ton of coal, and who hasn't at one time or another in his
life written about the eyebrows of some woman?"

The Poet laughed this time. "A triolet to a ton of coal would be a
glorious thing now, wouldn't it?" he observed.

"No," said the Idiot. "A triolet could never be a glorious thing under
any circumstances; but to the extent that a ton of coal contains a
certain amount of grandeur in the service it renders to mankind, I think
the form would be ennobled somewhat by the substance. Let's try it and
see."

"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?"

"Precisely," smiled the Poet. "You have the right notion about that. The
form of a poem should really be adapted to the substance. It should be
descriptive, always. Tennyson's 'Charge of the Light Brigade' has in its
rhythm nothing more or less than the clatter of the horses' hoofs as
they and their riders dashed through the valley of death at Balaklava.
And how vividly Southey's brook comes before the mind in its mad rush
downward as one reads that wonderfully lyrical poem. Why don't you write
a book of household poetry? You seem to me to be eminently well
qualified to undertake it."

"I intend to," said the Idiot. "In fact, I've begun it already. Written
five or six. Like to see 'em?"

"Indeed I should," said the Poet. "Anything you do interests me."

The Idiot went to his desk and took from it a few pages of manuscript.

"Here is a thing on pokers I did the other night. I called it 'The Song
of the Poker Bold.'" And then he read these lines:

  "Warder of the grate am I,
    Ever standing near;
  Poking, poking all day long,
    Knowing naught of fear.

  "Keeping coals up to their work,
    Setting them aglow,
  Minding not the scorching heat,
    Rather like it so.

  "Knocking ashes right and left,
    Flirting with the tiles;
  Bossing tongs and seeing that
    The brazen kettle biles.

  "And the little girls and boys
    As they watch me pause,
  Wishing that I'd talk and tell
    'Bout old Santa Claus!

  "Cracking jokes with crickets on
    The merry hearth, elate;
  Happy lot indeed is mine--
    Warder of the grate!"

"Splendid!" cried the Poet, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.
"Splendid! A good stiff pokeresque lyric, and your characterization of
the poker as the 'Warder of the Grate' gives it a flavor of romance. You
could almost imagine the implement going out into a mediæval world in
search of knightly adventure--a sort of hearth-stone Quixote. Have you
tackled the clothes-pin yet?"

"Yes," replied the Idiot. "Indeed, my first effort was a lyric on the
clothes-pin. I started one night to do the contents of the
kitchen-dresser drawer in French forms, but the first thing I took out
was an egg-beater, and it wouldn't go, so I did the clothes-pin lyric. I
call it

"FIDELITY

  "Blow, ye winds,
    I fear ye not;
  Blast, ye simoon,
    Sere and hot!

  "Hurricane,
    And cyclone, too,
  Blow, I have no
    Fear of you.

  "Lacking beauty,
    Lacking grace,
  Lacking handsome
    Form and face;

  "Lacking soul
    And intellect,
  Still I stand up,
    Proud, erect.

  "For the Fates
    Have given me
  Wondrous great
    Tenacity.

  "And success,
    Both fair and fine,
  Comes to him
    Who holds his line.

  "Burrs can stick
    And so can glue--
  Mucilage,
    Stratena, too;

  "But there's nothing
    Holds so fast
  As the clothes-pin
    To the last."

"And you gave up the egg-beater altogether?" asked the Poet, restraining
a natural inclination to find flaws in the construction of the
clothes-pin poem.

"Oh no," said the Idiot, "I knocked off a little quatrain on that. I
called it 'The Speedy Egg-Beater,' and it goes like this:

  "Great Maude S. can beat all steeds,
    However speedy be their legs;
  But I distance her with ease
    When it comes to beating eggs."

"I really think that you would have done better to give up the
egg-beater," said the Poet, grown critical. "I've no patience with
one-rhymed quatrains. Now if you had written:

  "Great Maude S. can beat all steeds,
    However speedy be their legs;
  But despite her doughty deeds;
    I can beat her beating eggs,

"I should not have objected."

"I accept the amendment," replied the Idiot, meekly. "I realized the
weakness of the thing myself, and thought of changing it into a couplet,
where you only need one rhyme. How's this on a 'Carpet-Tack'?"

[Illustration: "'FOR THOUGH I'M BUT A CARPET-TACK

AFAR FROM MOIL AND STRIFE,

NO ONE CAN EVER TRULY SAY

THAT MINE'S A POINTLESS LIFE'"]

  "However dull the day,
    However dull the skies,
  However dark the night may be,
    My spirits ever rise.

  "For though I'm but a carpet-tack,
    Afar from moil and strife,
  No one can ever truly say
    That mine's a pointless life."

"That is very good," said the Poet. "I think almost any editor of any
comic paper would be willing to pay you three dollars for that. It is as
good as your poem on a ton of coal--simple in its expression and sweet
in sentiment."

"I thought you'd think so," said the Idiot. "It struck me so. I've got
one on a screw-driver, too, that is very much of the same order, and
conveys a moral lesson to the reader who is always reaching out after
the unattainable. It reads as follows:

  "I cannot tool a tally-ho,
    I cannot drive a nag;
  I dare not hold the ribbons
    On a hack or rumbling drag.

  "I could not guide the reins upon
    A simple billy-goat,
  And I should hesitate to try
    To drive a can-al boat.

  "But I don't mind these things at all,
    For I can drive a screw,
  And I am happy, for that's just
    What I was meant to do."

[Illustration: "'I SHOULD HESITATE TO TRY TO WRITE A CAN-AL BOAT'"]

"The fourth line of the second verse is weak, but otherwise it's good,"
commented the Poet. "It's not a _can_-al boat; it's a can-_al_ boat, and
all the poetic license in the world wouldn't excuse your taking such
a liberty with language."

"I appreciate that," said the Idiot. "But I don't see how I could get
around it."

"There's only one way," said the Poet. "I think if you omitted that
verse altogether you'd improve the poem."

"Then I should have to eliminate the billy-goat," said the Idiot. "That
takes a great deal of humor out of it. I always laugh when I encounter a
beast like that in poetry; he seems so helpless when incarcerated in a
poem."

"That may be," observed the Poet. "But it is my belief that the goat, of
all animals in the kingdom, was the last one designed to be used in
poetry, anyhow. He is bad enough in prose, and in this case will butt
your poem to oblivion if you insist on keeping him in it. Any more?"

"No," said the Idiot; "that's the last."

"Well, you've got a good start," said the Poet, rising to light his
pipe, which had gone out. "And if I were you I'd go on and finish the
book. 'The Idiot's Book of Household Poetry' would have a great sale.
It has but one drawback that I can see. You harp on one string too much.
Every one of your poems preaches contentment, satisfaction--nothing
else."

"That," said the Idiot, "is not an objection, but a virtue; for what
other lesson," he added, with a glance of pride at his surroundings,
"what other lesson, my dear Poet, should a home try to teach, and what
other sentiment can mean so much to mankind?"

[Illustration: "'I HAVEN'T EVER HAD A HOME; I'VE ALWAYS BOARDED'"]

"I don't know," said the Poet, with a little sigh. "I haven't ever had a
home; I've always boarded."

Whereupon the Idiot rose up from his chair, and putting his arm about
his friend's shoulder, said:

"How you do talk! Never had a home? Why, my dear fellow, what's this?
It's yours as long as it's mine!"




VIII

SOME CONSIDERATION OF THE HIRED MAN


"Who is that sitting down on your tennis-court, Mr. Idiot?" asked Mr.
Brief, the lawyer. "Or is it anybody? I've been trying for the last
half-hour to make out whether it's a man or one of those iron figures
with which some people decorate their lawns."

"That," replied the Idiot, calmly, "is my hired man. I pay him forty
dollars a month to sit down there and let the grass grow under his feet.
I heard you and Mr. Pedagog discussing the wonderful grassiness of my
lawn after dinner last night, and I meant to have told you then that the
credit thereof belongs entirely to the restful nature of that man's
soul. He will stand for hours rooted to one spot and looking with
apparent aimlessness out over the river. To most people this would seem
to be prompted by a sheer indisposition to work, but this would do him a
rank injustice, for his immovability is due entirely to his system. He
is letting the grass grow beneath him, and the fact that our grass is so
nourishing everywhere is due to his having stood for hours at various
times over every square inch of territory to which I hold the
title-deeds."

The Idiot gazed out of the window at his retainer with affectionate
admiration.

"He certainly clings closely to his system," said the lawyer.

[Illustration: "'I FEEL THAT I COULD GO OUT AND MOW THREE ACRES OF
GRASS'"]

"He is a model," said the Idiot. "He has done more to make my life here
easy than any one in my service. For instance, you know the hurly-burly
of existence in town. I go to my office in the morning, and whether I
have much work or little to do, I come home in the afternoon absolutely
worn out. The constant hustling and bustling of others in the city wears
upon my mind, and consequently upon my body. The rush and roar of cables
and electric-cars; the activity of messengers running to and fro in the
streets; the weary horses dragging great lumbering wagons up and down
the crowded thoroughfares, all affect my nature and impair my energy;
and then, the day's work done, I return here, where all is quiet and
still, and the very contrast between that man, standing silently on his
appointed spot, or leaning against the house, or lying off in sheer
content under some tree, and the mad scramble for lucre in the city,
invigorates my tired body until I feel that I could go out and mow three
acres of grass before dinner; in fact, I generally do."

"I did not know that a restful nature was a requisite of a successful
career as a hired man," said Mr. Pedagog.

"It is evident, then, that you have never had a hired man," rejoined the
Idiot. "Nor can you ever have studied the species at close range.
Ceaseless activity would be his ruin. If he did to-day all there is to
do, he would be out of employment to-morrow, consequently he never does
to-day's work to-day, and cultivates that leisurely attitude towards
life upon which you have commented. Do you see that small beech-tree
over there?" he added, pointing to a scrawny little sapling whose sole
virtue appeared to be its rigid uprightness.

"Is that a beech-tree?" asked Mr. Brief. "I thought it was a garden
stake."

[Illustration: "'He WOULD GO OUT DAY AFTER DAY AND SIT DOWN BESIDE IT'"]

"It is a beech-tree," said the Idiot. "I planted it myself last autumn,
and while it has as yet borne no beeches, I think if we give it time,
and it withstands the rigors of the climate, it will produce its fruit.
But it was not of its possibilities as a beech-bearing tree that I
intended to speak. I wanted to indicate to you by a material object the
value of having a hired man who likes to lean against things. At the
close of this last winter that tree, instead of being as erect as a
grenadier, as it now is, was all askew. The strong westerly winds which
are constantly blowing across that open stretch bent the thing until it
seemed that the tree was bound to be deformed; but Mike overcame the
difficulty. He would go out day after day and sit down beside it and
lean against it for two and three hours at a time, with the result that
the tendency to curve was overcome, and a tree that I feared was doomed
to fail now bids fair to resemble a successful telegraph-pole in its
uprightness. And, of course, the added warmth of his body pressing down
upon the earth which covers its roots gave it an added impulse to
grow."

"It is a wonderful system," smiled Mr. Brief. "I wonder it is not
adopted everywhere."

"It is, pretty much," said the Idiot. "Most hired men do the same thing.
I don't think Mike differs radically from others of his kind. Of course,
there are exceptions. My neighbor Jimpsonberry, for instance, has a man
who is so infernally unrestful that he makes everybody tired. He is up
every morning mowing Jimpsonberry's lawn at five o'clock, waking up
every sleepy soul within ear-shot with the incessant and disturbing
clicking of his machine. Mike would never think of making such a
nuisance of himself. Furthermore, Jimpsonberry's lawn is kept so
close-cropped that the grass doesn't get any chance, and in the heat of
midsummer turns to a dull brick-red."

After a pause, during which the company seemed to be deeply cogitating
the philosophical bearing of the subject under discussion, the Idiot
resumed:

"There is another aspect of this matter," he said, "which Jimpsonberry's
man brings to my mind. You know as well as I do that heat is
contagious. If you feel as cool as a cucumber, and then all of a sudden
see somebody who is dripping with perspiration and looking for all the
world like a human kettle simmering on a kitchen-range, you begin to
simmer yourself. It is mere sympathy, of course, but you simmer just the
same, get uncomfortable and hot in the collar, and are shortly as badly
off as the other fellow. So it is with Jimpsonberry's man. Time and time
again he has spoiled all my pleasure by making me realize by a glance at
his red face and sweating arms how beastly hot it is, when before I had
seen him I felt tolerably comfortable. Mike, on the other hand, is not
so inconsiderate, and I am confident would let the grass grow a mile
high before he would consent to interfere with my temperature by pushing
the mower up and down the lawn on a humid day."

"Do you keep this interesting specimen of still life all through the
year?" asked Mr. Brief, "or do you give him a much-needed vacation in
winter? I should think he would be worn out with all this standing
around, for nothing that I know of is more tiresome than doing
nothing."

"No," said the Idiot. "Mike never seems to need a vacation. Sitting down
and leaning against things and standing around don't seem to tire him in
the least. It might tire you or me, but you see he's used to it. The
only effect it has on him, as I view the matter, is that it wears out
his clothes. It doesn't impair his lack of vigor at all. So by the
simple act of occasionally renewing his wardrobe, which I do every time
I discard a suit of my own, I revive his wasted vitality, and he does
not require to be sent to Europe, or to take an extended tour in the
White Mountains to recuperate. I keep him all through the winter, and
his system is quite the same then as in summer, except that he does his
sitting around and leaning indoors instead of in the open."

"I suppose he looks after the furnace and keeps the walks clear of snow
in winter time?" suggested Mr. Pedagog, who was beginning to take an
interest in this marvellously restful personage.

[Illustration: "'HE SHOVELS OFF A FOOT-PATH'"]

"Yes," said the Idiot; "and he attends to the windows as well. As a
minder of the furnace he is invaluable. My house is as cool as a
roof-garden all through the winter, and thanks to his unwillingness to
over-exert himself shovelling coal into the furnace, I burn only about
half as much as my neighbors, and my house is never overheated. This in
itself is an indication of the virtue of Mike's method. One-half of the
colds contracted by children nowadays are the result of overheated
houses. Mike's method gives me a cool house at very moderate expense,
owing to the great saving of coal, the children do not get colds because
of overheating, and the expense of having a doctor every other day is
averted. Then his snow-shovelling scheme goes back to the first
principles of nature. Mike is not overawed by convention, and instead of
following the steps of other men who shovel the snow entirely off, he
shovels off a footpath to enable me to go to business, and then sits
down and oversees the sun while it melts the balance. Sometimes, if the
sun does not do the work promptly enough to suit him, he gets up little
contests for the children. He divides up certain portions of the walk
into equal parts, and starts the small boys on a race to see which one
will get the portion assigned to him cleaned off first, the prize being
something in the nature of an apple, which the cook orders from the
market. I believe my son Thomas won ten apples last winter, although I
am told that the Jimpsonberry boy, whose father's man is cross, and
insists on doing all the work himself, is the champion snow-shoveller of
the street."

"Yes, he is, pa," put in Tommy. "Mike owes him 'leven apples. I only won
eight."

"Well, that is a very good record, Thomas," said the Idiot, "and I will
see to it that next winter you have a brand-new snow-shovel with which
to enter the contest."

"Mike lets us chop the kindling-wood, too," said Tommy, suddenly
perceiving a chance to put in a good word for the genial Mike. "I think
he's the nicest hired man as ever was."

"He'll stop anything he's doing to talk to me," ventured Mollie, not
wishing to be backward in laying wreaths upon the brow of their friend.

"Yes, I have noticed that," said the Idiot. "Indeed, next to his extreme
restfulness there is no quality that I know of in Mike that shines out
so conspicuously as his intense love for children. He will neglect his
own interests, as Mollie has suggested, to talk to the little ones, and
I rather like him for it. No boy dares go near the Jimpsonberry man, who
has exerted himself into a perpetual state of nervous exhaustion."

"Well, if he cleans your windows, that is something," observed Mrs.
Pedagog, whose experience in keeping a boarding-house years before
entitled her to speak as one having authority.

"Unless his system is the same in that work as in the other branches
committed to his care," said Mr. Brief.

[Illustration: "'SPEND A WHOLE DAY ON ONE WINDOW'"]

"It isn't quite," said the Idiot. "He really does exert himself in
window-cleaning. I have frequently seen him spend a whole day on one
window. His window-washing system is a very ingenious one,
nevertheless."

"It is, indeed," said Mrs. Idiot, with a show of feeling.

"A new window-washing system?" grinned Mr. Pedagog.

"Yes," said the Idiot. "It is his own invention. He washes them on the
outside in summer and on the inside in winter. The result is this
opalescent glass which you see. You would hardly guess that these
windows are of French plate. Still, we don't mind so much. I couldn't
ask him to wash them on the outside in winter, it is so dreadfully cold,
and in the summer, of course, they are always open, and no one, unless
he were disagreeable enough to go snooping about after unpleasant
details, would notice that they are not immaculate."

"And you pay this man forty dollars for this?" demanded Mr. Brief.

"Oh, for this and other things. I pay him two dollars a month for the
work he does. I pay him ten dollars a month because he's good to the
children. I pay him ten dollars more for his civility, which is
unvarying--he always puts his hat on when he comes into the house,
having noticed, perhaps, that only those who are my social equals are
entitled to appear bareheaded in my presence."

"And the other eighteen?" persisted the lawyer, by nature a
cross-examiner.

"Well, I don't grudge him that because--" a sort of a fond light lit up
the Idiot's eyes as he gazed down upon Mike, still sitting on the
tennis-court--"I don't grudge him that other eighteen dollars because it
costs Mike twenty dollars a month to live; and he uses the rest of it to
put his boy through college, so that when he grows up to be a man he
will be something more than a hired man."

"Ah!" said Mr. Brief.

"Yes," said the Idiot; "I found that out from a third party some time
ago, and I thought after all I'd keep him, for I know nobody else would
have him, and then what would become of the boy in college?"




IX

ON SOCIAL ACCOUNTS


"It's rather strange, I think," observed Mrs. Idiot one evening, as she
and the Idiot sat down to dine, "that the Dawkinses haven't been here
for three or four months."

"I've noticed it myself," said the Idiot. "We used to see 'em every day
about. What's up? You and Polly Dawkins had a fight?"

"Not that I know of," said Mrs. Idiot. "The last time we met she was
very cordial, and asked most affectionately after you and the children.
I presumed that possibly you and Dick had had some kind of a falling
out."

"Not a bit of it. Dick and I couldn't quarrel any more than you and
Polly could. Perhaps as we grow older our ideals differ. Polly's rather
anthropological in her talks, isn't she?"

"A trifle," said Mrs. Idiot. "And musical and literary and scientific."

"While you?" queried the Idiot.

[Illustration: "'WELL, I'M FOND OF GOLF'"]

"Well, I'm fond of golf and--ah--well--"

"Golf again," laughed the Idiot. "I guess that's it, Bess. When a woman
wants to talk about the origin of the species and has to hear about a
splendid putt, and her observations upon the sonata are invariably
interrupted by animadversions upon the morals of caddies, and her
criticisms of Browning end in a discussion of the St. Andrew's Rules,
she's apt to shy off into a more congenial atmosphere, don't you think?"

"I am sure," retorted Mrs. Idiot, "that while I admit I am more
interested in golf than in anything else outside of you and the
children, I can and do talk sometimes of other things than caddies, and
beautiful drives, and stymies. You are very much mistaken if you think
otherwise."

"That is very true, my dear," said the Idiot. "And nobody knows it
better than I do. I've heard you talk charmingly about lots of things
besides stymies, and foozles, and putts, and drives, but you don't know
anything about the men of the Stone Age, and you couldn't tell the
difference between a sonata and a fugue any more than I. Furthermore,
you have no patience with Browning, so that when Polly Dawkins asks if
you like _Sordello_, you are more likely than not to say that you never
ate any, but on the whole for small fish prefer whitebait."

Mrs. Idiot laughed.

"No, indeed," she replied. "I'd fall back on golf if Polly mentioned
_Sordello_ to me. You may remember that you sent it to me when we were
engaged, and I loved you so much--then--that I read it. If I hadn't
loved you I couldn't have done it."

"Well," smiled the Idiot, "what did you think of it?"

"I think Browning had a good lie, but he foozled," said Mrs. Idiot, with
her eyes atwinkle, and the Idiot subsided for at least ten seconds.

"I wish you'd say that to Polly some time," he observed. "It's so very
true, and put with an originality which cannot but appeal to the most
hardened of literary women."

"I will if I ever get the chance," said Mrs. Idiot.

"Suppose we make the chance?" suggested the Idiot. "Let's go down there
and call to-night. I'll work the conversation up so that you can get
that off as an impromptu."

[Illustration: "AN ANTHROPOLOGICAL TEA"]

"No," said Mrs. Idiot. "I don't think we'd better. In the first place,
Mrs. Whalker told me yesterday that Polly is to read a paper on Balzac
before the S. F. M. E. to-morrow evening, and on Friday morning she is
to discuss the 'Influence of Mozart on De Koven' before the Musical
Mothers' Meeting, and on Saturday afternoon she is going to have an
anthropological tea at her house, which she is to open with some
speculations as to whether in the Glacial Period dudes were addicted to
the use of cigarettes."

"Great Scott!" said the Idiot. "This is her busy week."

"Tolerably so," said Mrs. Idiot. "She has probably reserved this evening
to read up on Balzac for to-morrow's essay, so I think, my dear, we'd
better not go."

"Right as usual," said the Idiot. And then he added, "Poor Dawkins, who
is taking care of him now?"

"I think," said Mrs. Idiot, "that possibly Mrs. Dawkins has sublet the
contract for looking after her husband and children to the United
States Housekeeping Company Limited."

The Idiot gazed blankly at his wife, and awaited an explanation.

[Illustration: "'THE BABY IS ROCKED TO SLEEP EVERY NIGHT'"]

"An organization, my dear," she continued, "formed by a number of
well-meaning and remorseful widows who, having lost their husbands,
begin to appreciate their virtues, and who, finding themselves
sympathetic when it is too late, are devoting themselves to the husbands
of others who are neglected. A subscription of five hundred dollars will
secure the supervision of all the domestic arrangements of a
home--marketing, engagement and discharge of domestics, house-cleaning,
buttons sewed on, darning done, care of flowers, wifely duties
generally; for one thousand dollars they will bring up the children, and
see that the baby is rocked to sleep every night, and suitably
interested in elevating narratives and poems like Joseph's coat of many
colors, and Tom, Tom the Piper's Son. This enables an advanced woman
like Mrs. Dawkins to devote her mornings to the encyclopedias, her
afternoons to the public libraries, and her evenings to the functions
whereat she may read the papers which her devotion to the encyclopedias
and the libraries has brought forth."

"Excuse me, my dear Bess," said the Idiot, rising. "I wish to telephone
Dr. Simmons."

"For what--for whom?" demanded the lady.

"You, of course," returned the Idiot. "You are developing alarming
symptoms. You give every indication of a bad attack of professional
humor. Your 'International Widows Company for the Protection and
Amelioration of Neglected Husbandry' proves that!"

Mrs. Idiot laughed again.

[Illustration: "POOR DICK DAWKINS ISN'T TAKEN CARE OF AT ALL'"]

"Oh, I didn't say that there really is such an institution!" she cried.
"I said that I supposed there was, for if there isn't, poor Dick Dawkins
isn't taken care of at all."

"Well, I'm sorry for it all, anyhow," said the Idiot, seriously.
"They're both of 'em good friends of ours, and I hate to see two
families that have been so close drawing apart."

Just then Mollie and Tommy came in.

"Mamma, Willie Dawkins says he can't come to our party because his ma
won't let him," said Mollie. "She says we don't never go down there."

"That's it," said the Idiot. "Mrs. Dawkins has got so many irons in the
fire she's begun to keep social books. I'll bet you she's got a ledger
and a full set of double-entry account-books charging up calls payable
and calls receivable."

"I don't see how she can get along unless she has," replied Mrs. Idiot.
"With all her clubs and church societies and varied social obligations
she needs an expert accountant to keep track of them all."

"I suppose a promise to read a paper on Balzac," put in the Idiot, "is
something like a three-months' note. It's easy to promise to pay, with
three months in which to prepare, but you've got to keep track of the
date and meet the obligation when it falls due. As for me, I'd rather
meet the note."

"That is about it," said Mrs. Idiot. "If a woman goes into society
properly she's got to make a business of it. For instance, there are
about ten dances given at the club here every year. Polly is patroness
for every one of 'em. There are twenty-five teas during the spring and
summer months. Polly assists at half of them, and gives a fifth of
them. She's president of the King's Daughters, corresponding secretary
of the Dorcas, treasurer of the Red Cross Society, and goodness knows
what all!"

"I can quite understand why she needs to keep accounts--social
accounts," said the Idiot. "But it's rather queer, don't you think, that
she has the children on her books? The idea of saying that Jimmie and
Gladys can't come to Mollie's party because Mollie hasn't been down
there--why, it's nonsense!"

"No," said Mrs. Idiot, "it is merely logical. Whatever Polly Dawkins
does she tries to do thoroughly. I've no doubt she'll do Balzac up
completely. If she keeps social books showing call balances in her favor
or against herself she might as well go the whole thing and write the
children in--only she's made a mistake, as far as we are concerned,
unless she means to write us off without squaring up."

"You talk like a financier," said the Idiot, admiringly. "What do you
know about writing off?"

"I used to help my father with his accounts, occasionally," said Mrs.
Idiot. "Polly Dawkins's books ought to show a balance of one call in
our favor. That's really the reason I'm not willing to call there
to-night. She's so queer about it all, and, as a matter of fact, she
owes me a call. I'm not going to overwhelm her with an added
obligation."

"Ho!" smiled the Idiot. "You keep books yourself, eh?"

"I keep score," said Mrs. Idiot. "I learned that playing golf."

"It's a bad thing to keep score in golf," said the Idiot.

"So they say, but I find it amusing," she replied.

"And how many calls does Mrs. Wilkins owe you?" demanded the Idiot.

"I don't know," returned the wife. "And I don't care. When I want to see
Mrs. Wilkins I call on her whether she owes me a call or not, but with
Polly Dawkins it's different. She began the book-keeping, and as long as
she likes it I must try to live up to her ideas. If social intercourse
develops into a business, business requirements must be observed."

"It's a good idea in a way," said the Idiot, reflectively. "But if you
make a business of society, why don't you carry it to a logical
conclusion? Balance your books, if you mean business, every month, and
send your debtors a statement of their account."

"Well, I will if you wish me to," said Mrs. Idiot. "Suppose they don't
pay?"

"Dun 'em," said the Idiot. And then the matter dropped.

On the fifth of the following month Mr. and Mrs. Idiot were seated
comfortably in their library. The children had gone to bed, and they
were enjoying the bliss of a quiet evening at home, when the door-bell
rang, and in a moment or two the maid ushered in Mr. and Mrs. Richard
Dawkins, preceded, of course, by their cards. The young householders
were delighted, and Polly Dawkins was never more charming. She looked
well, and she talked well, and there was not a symptom of any diminution
of the old-time friendship perceptible--only she did appear to be tired
and care-worn.

The evening wore away pleasantly. The chat reverted to old times, and by
degrees Mrs. Dawkins seemed to grow less tired.

About ten o'clock the Idiot invited his neighbor to adjourn to the
smoking-room, where they each lit a cigar and indulged in a
companionable glass.

"Idiot," said Dawkins, when his wife called out to him that it was time
to go home, "your wife is a wonder. I've been trying for three months to
make Polly come up here and she wouldn't. Keeps books, you know--now.
Has to--so much to do. Thought you owed us a call, but received your
bill Wednesday--looked it up--questioned servants--found you were
right."

"Bill," cried the Idiot. "What bill?"

"Why, the one Mrs. Idiot sent--this," said Dawkins, taking a piece of
paper out of his pocket. "Confoundedly good joke."

The Idiot took up the piece of paper. It was type-written--on Tommy's
machine--and read as follows:

  November 1 1898
  MR. AND MRS. RICHARD DAWKINS
  _To Mr. and Mrs. Idiot Dr._

  September 20       Evening call                1
                     Account overdue.
                     Please remit.

"Great Scott!" laughed the Idiot.

"My dear," said the Idiot after the Dawkinses had gone, "that bill of
yours was a great idea."

"It wasn't my idea at all--it was yours," said Mrs. Idiot, laughing.
"You said we ought to be business-like to the last and send out a
statement on the first of the month. I sent it. And they paid up."

"Richard," said Mrs. Dawkins, as they drove home, "did you get a
receipt?"




X

AS TO SANTA CLAUS


"I am very glad I didn't take Tommy and Mollie to church with me this
morning," said Mrs. Idiot, on her return from service. "It would have
broken their hearts to have heard the sermon. I don't know what gets
into Dr. Preachly sometimes. He gave us a blast about Santa Claus."

"A blast about Santa Claus, eh!" said the Idiot. "And how did he blast
the good old saint?"

"He said he was a lie," rejoined Mrs. Idiot, indignantly, "and that it
was the duty of every Christian in the land to see that the lie was
exposed."

"Great heavens!" cried the Idiot, in astonishment. "Doesn't Dr. Preachly
believe in Santa Claus? Poor old Preachly! How much he has lost! Did he
say anything about Hop o' My Thumb and Cinderella?"

"No, of course not. Why should he?" returned Mrs. Idiot.

"Oh, because; I suppose that a man who doesn't believe in Santa Claus is
a skeptic on the subject of Hop o' My Thumb, and Rumpelstiltzken, and
Cinderella, and Jack the Giant-Killer, and all the rest of that noble
army of childhood friends," explained the Idiot.

"He didn't mention them," said Mrs. Idiot. "He--"

"He's going to preach a series of sermons on lies, I presume," said the
Idiot. "He's tackled Santa Claus first, as being the most seasonable of
the lot, eh? Jack the Giant-Killer ought to be a good subject for a
ministerial attack."

"Well, he pulled poor old Santa Claus to pieces," said Mrs. Idiot, with
a sigh.

"Why didn't you bring me a piece of him as a souvenir?" demanded the
Idiot. "Just a lock of his hair for my collection of curios? What was
done with the remains?"

Mrs. Idiot laughed as she pulled over her gloves and smoothed them upon
her lap.

"There weren't any remains," she answered. "When Dr. Preachly got
through with him there wasn't a vestige of the old chap left. To begin
with, he was a lie, the doctor said. Then he went on and showed that he
was a wickedly partial old fellow--a very snob, he called him--because
he gives fine things to the children of the rich and little or nothing
to the children of the poor. He filled the little folk with hope and
brought them disappointment, and so on. It was a powerful sermon,
although I wanted to weep over it."

"Go ahead and weep," said the Idiot; "it's the appropriate thing to do.
I don't wonder you wanted to cry; you've always liked Dr. Preachly."

"Of course," said Mrs. Idiot.

"And you hate to see him make a--ah--a--well, you know--of himself in
the pulpit; and I quite agree with you. I rather like Preachly myself.
It is too bad to see a well-meaning man like that batting his brains out
against the rock of Gibraltar, whether suicide is sin or not. What has
put him in this despondent mood? Do you suppose he has heard?"

"Heard what?" demanded Mrs. Idiot.

"About the slippers," said the Idiot.

"What slippers?" asked his wife.

"Oh, the same old slippers," said the Idiot. "You know the ones I
mean--the ones he's going to get from Santa Claus. Really, I'm not
surprised, after all. If I were a minister, and realized that truckloads
of embroidered slippers of every size and color, covered with stags of
red worsted jumping over rivulets of yellow floss, with split agates for
eyes set in over the toe, were to be dumped in my front yard every
Christmas Eve by that old reprobate, Santa Claus, I think I, too, would
set him down as a fraud, or an overworked cobbler, anyhow."

[Illustration: "'DR. PREACHLY ONLY GOT EIGHT PAIRS LAST XMAS'"]

"That's exaggerated--a comic-paper idea," said Mrs. Idiot. "I don't
believe the average clergyman gets so many slippers. Dr. Preachly only
got eight pairs last Christmas."

"Is that all?" cried the Idiot. "Mercy, what a small income of slippers!
Dear me! how can he live with only eight pairs of slippers? But, after
all, slippers are an appropriate gift for a clergyman," he added, "and
Santa Claus should be credited with that fact. Slippers have soles, and
the more slippers he gets the easier it is to save their soles, and
therefore--"

"Really, my dear, you are flippant," said Mrs. Idiot.

"Not at all," rejoined the Idiot. "I am merely trying to sit on two
stools at once--to retain my respect for Dr. Preachly without giving up
my everlasting regard for Santa Claus. If I can't do both I am very much
afraid it will be Dr. Preachly, and not Santa Claus, who will go to the
wall in this establishment, and that would be sad. I can't say I think
much of the doctor's logic. Do you?"

"I didn't notice his logic," Mrs. Idiot replied.

"Very likely," said the Idiot; "from what you tell me of his discourse I
imagine he must have left it at home, which is a bad thing to do in an
argument. To begin, he called Santa a lie, did he?"

"Yes; said he didn't exist at all."

"Good! Then how could he have been a snob?"

"Why, while of course I have no sympathy with his conclusions, Dr.
Preachly handled that point pretty well. It certainly is true that in
the homes of the rich there is a lavishness of gifts that you don't
find in the homes of the poor, and therefore Santa Claus treats the rich
better than he does the poor. We all know that."

"Hum!" said the Idiot. "And so it is Santa Claus who is the snob, eh,
and not Fortune?"

"Well, Dr. Preachly did not touch upon that. All he said was that Santa
Claus was a snob for favoring 'high society' and in many cases
absolutely ignoring the submerged."

"But I don't see how," said the Idiot.

"Suppose he brings a diamond necklace to the daughter of a Croesus?"

"Precisely," said the Idiot.

[Illustration: "'A CHINA DOLL TO THE DAUGHTER OF A CARPENTER'"]

"And a china doll to the daughter of a carpenter?" said Mrs. Idiot.

"That's tact, not snobbishness," said the Idiot. "What would the
daughter of a carpenter do with a diamond necklace? The china doll is
not only more appropriate, but a better plaything."

"Well, anyhow, he gives richly to those that have, and sparsely, if at
all, to those that haven't, Dr. Preachly said," said Mrs. Idiot.

"There is scriptural authority for that," observed the Idiot. "I wonder
if Dr. Preachly reads his Bible! Perhaps I'd better send him one for
Christmas instead of a pair of galoshes. He'll find in the Bible that
'to him that hath shall be given,' and so forth. But to return to the
logic--"

"I told you I didn't notice it," said Mrs. Idiot.

"Nor did Dr. Preachly, my dear; passed it by as if it were a poor
relation, apparently. But this is true, a lie is an untruth. Truth alone
lives, therefore an untruth does not live. Santa Claus is a lie and does
not live, and is a snob, according to our reverend logician. Now, how
can one who does not live be a snob or anything else? Truly, I wish Dr.
Preachly would be more careful in his statements. As a pew-holder in his
church I do not like to hear him denounce something that does not exist
as having unworthy qualities. It's like shaking a sword at nothing and
patting yourself on the back afterwards for your courage; still more in
this instance is it like batting your poor mortal head against the hard
surface of an everlasting rock, and our clergy should be in better
business.

"Let 'em fight the harmful lies--the lies of false social ideas as
propagated by distinctions of pew-holding, for instance. The man who
sits in the front of the church is no better than the man who sits at
the back, and is frequently his inferior; but has he more or has he less
influence? The man who hands in his check for ten thousand dollars,
having that and more to spare, is not more the friend of religion and
Christianity than the poor beggar who stumbles in and puts his penny in
the plate, thus diminishing by one-fifth his capital. Suppose Santa
Claus is in a material sense a fancy or a lie; Heaven help Dr. Preachly
if he can't see the beauty and the ethical value of the deception. Is he
not the embodiment of the golden rule, and is he not, after all--God
bless him and them!--something beautiful in the eyes of the children?"

"I'm flippant, and I know it, but there are some things I cling to," he
added, after a pause. "Santa Claus is one of them, and Dr. Preachly can
preach through all eternity, and, with all due respect to him, he can't
remove from my mind the beauty of an idea that was planted there by two
people who were practical enough, my father and my mother. I've
inherited Santa Claus, and I'm not going to give him up, and no
preacher in our church or in the church of others can take him away from
me by one sermon, or by an infinite number of sermons, however sincere
they may be. Is dinner ready?"

Dinner was ready. It was eaten reflectively, and after it the children
went to Sunday-school. From this Tommy returned with a swollen eye,
which later became dark.

"Hullo, pop!" he said, addressing the Idiot as he entered the house.

[Illustration: "'HULLO, SONNY! HAD A GOOD TIME?'"]

"Hullo, sonny!" replied the Idiot, observing the swollen eye. "Had a
good time?"

"Yep," said the boy; "pretty good."

"Been fighting?" suggested the Idiot.

"Not so very much," said the boy; "only a little." And he began to sing
a popular air, as if he didn't care much about life in general, and
didn't mind an aching eye, which was rapidly, by its inflammation,
giving away the fact that he had met with trouble.

"What did you learn at Sunday-school?" asked the Idiot.

"More blessed to give than to receive," said Tommy.

"Good!" said the Idiot. "I hope you will remember that, sonny. There is
no satisfaction in all the world like that of giving if you can afford
it."

[Illustration: "'I GAVE MY DOLLY AWAY TO-DAY'"]

"I think tho, too," said Mollie, sitting down on her father's lap with
the contented sigh of a little girl who has discovered that life is not
all an illusion. "I gave my dollie away to-day, papa," she added. "She
wath only thawdust, and Pollie Harrington hath her now. She was a
drefful care, and I'm glad to be ridden of her."

But the Idiot's mind was not on dolls, and he showed it. His boy's eye
proved a greater care.

"Come here, my boy," he said.

The boy approached inquiringly.

"How did this happen?" the Idiot asked. "Your eye is swollen."

"Oh, I don't know," cried Tommy, exultantly. "Jimmie Roberts said there
wasn't no Santy Claus."

"Well?"

"I said there was, an' then I gave him one on the end of his nose."

Here the boy struggled away from his father, as if he had done something
he was willing to stand by.

"Let me understand this," said the Idiot. "Jimmie said--"

"There wasn't any Santy Claus," interrupted Tommy.

"Then what did you say?" asked the Idiot.

"I told him he didn't know what he was talking about," said Tommy.

"Why did you say that?"

"Because he was wrong, papa," said Tommy. "I've seen Santy Claus; I saw
him last year."

"Ah! You did, eh? I was not aware of that fact."

Tommy began to laugh.

"You can't fool me, daddy," he said, climbing onto his father's knee.
"Of course I've seen him, and he's the bulliest feller in all the world.
_You're him!_"

And a hug followed.

Later on Mrs. Idiot and the Idiot sat together. The latter was deep in
thought.

"Children have queer notions," said he, after a while.

"They are generally pretty right, though," observed Mrs. Idiot. "You are
a pretty good Santa Claus, after all," she added.

"Pollie," said the Idiot, rising, "I believe in Santa Claus because he
represents the spirit of the hour, and whoever tries to turn him down
tries to turn down that spirit--the most blessed thing we have. Let's
keep the children believing in Santa Claus, eh?"

"I agree," said Mrs. Idiot. "For the secret is out. You are Santa Claus
to them."

"Heaven grant I may always be as much," said the Idiot. "For if a father
is Santa Claus, and a boy or a girl believes in Santa Claus as a friend,
as a companion, as something that brings them only sincerity and love
and sympathy, then may we feel that Tiny Tim's prayer has been answered,
and that God has blessed us all."




XI

AS TO NEW-YEAR'S DAY


It was New-Year's eve, and Mr. and Mrs. Idiot with their old friends
were watching the old year die. The old year had been a fairly
successful one for them all, and they were properly mournful over its
prospective demise, but the promise of the new was sufficiently bright
to mitigate their sorrow.

"What a sandwich life is, after all!" ejaculated the Idiot.

Mr. Pedagog started nervously. The remark was so idiotic that even its
source seemed to make it inexcusable.

[Illustration: "'I DON'T QUITE CATCH YOUR DRIFT'"]

"I don't quite catch your drift," said he.

"As the man said when an avalanche of snow fell off his neighbor's roof
and missed him by an inch," said the Idiot. "Why, just think a moment,
Doctor, and my drift will overwhelm you. Look about you and consider
what we have ourselves demonstrated to-night. If that does not prove
life a series of emotional sandwiches, then I don't know what a sandwich
is. Twenty minutes ago we were all gladness over the prosperity of the
year gone by. Five minutes ago we were all on the verge of tears because
the good old year is going the way of all years. An hour from now we
will be joyously acclaiming the new. Two thick slices of joy with a thin
slice of grief between."

"Ah!" said Mr. Pedagog. "I see. There is something in the analogy, after
all. The bread of joy and the ham of sorrow, as you might put it; do
make up the sum of human existence; but in some cases, my lad, I am
afraid you will find there is only one slice of bread to two of ham."

"No doubt," replied the Idiot, "but that does not affect my proposition
that life is a sandwich. If one slice of ham between two slices of bread
is a ham sandwich, why is not one slice of bread between two slices of
ham a bread sandwich? What is a sandwich, anyhow? The dictionary says
that a sandwich is something placed between two other things; hence,
all things are sandwiches, because there is nothing in the world, the
world being round, that is not between two other things. Therefore, all
things being sandwiches, life is a sandwich, Q. E. D."

"Is life a thing?" demanded Mr. Pedagog.

"Certainly," said the Idiot. "And a mighty good thing, too. If you don't
believe it look the word thing up in the dictionary. All things are
things."

"But," continued the Schoolmaster, his old spirit of antagonism rising
up in his breast, "granted that life is a thing, what is it between so
that it becomes a sandwich?"

"The past and the future," said the Idiot. "It is a slice of the
immediate between a slice of past and one of future."

Mr. Pedagog laughed.

"You are still the same old Idiot," he said.

"Yes," said the Idiot. "Gibraltar and I and Truth are the three
unchangeable things in this life, and that's why I am so happy. I'm in
such good company. Gibraltar and Truth are good enough companions for
anybody."

Meanwhile Mollie and Tommy, who had been allowed to sit up upon this
rare occasion, stirred uneasily.

"Ith I a thandwich, popper?" said the little girl, sleepily, raising her
head from her father's shoulder and gazing into his eyes.

"Yes, indeed, you are," said her father, giving her an affectionate
squeeze. "A sugar sandwich, Mollie. You're really good enough to eat."

"Well, I'd rather be a pie," put in Tommy; "an apple pie."

"Very well, my son," returned the Idiot. "Have your own way. Henceforth
be a pie if you prefer--an apple pie. But may I ask why you express this
preference?"

"Oh, because," said Tommy, "if I'm to be an apple pie somebody's got to
fill me chock-full of apple sauce."

"The son of his father," observed Mr. Whitechoker.

"I think it is a pity," Mrs. Pedagog put in at this point, "that some of
the good old customs of the New Year have gone out."

"As to which, Mrs. Pedagog?" asked the Idiot.

"Well, New-Year's calling particularly," explained the lady. "It is no
longer the thing for people to make New-Year's calls, and I must confess
I regret it. It used to be a great pleasure to me in the old days to
receive the gentlemen--my old friends, and relatives, and boarders."

"Why distinguish between your old friends and your boarders, Mrs.
Pedagog?" interrupted the Idiot. "They are synonymous terms."

"They are now," said the good lady, "but--ah--they weren't always. I
used sometimes to think you, for instance, didn't like me as much as you
might."

"I didn't dare," explained the Idiot. "If I'd liked you as much as I
might I'd have told you so, and then Mr. Pedagog would have got jealous
and there'd have been a horrid affair."

The lady smiled graciously, and Mr. Pedagog threw a small paper pellet
at the Idiot.

"I'm much obliged to you for holding off, Idiot," he said. "I don't know
where I'd have been to-day if you'd got in ahead of me. Mrs. Pedagog has
always had a soft spot in her heart for you."

"I've got the other spot," said the Idiot, "and a pair of aces are hard
to beat in pairs; but I think I voice Mrs. Pedagog's sentiments in the
matter, Mr. Pedagog, when I say that she and I would always have been
glad to see you every other New-Year's day if I had been the fortunate
winner of her hand."

"And Mr. Pedagog and I would have been glad to see you and Mrs. Pedagog
in the sandwich years," said Mrs. Idiot to her husband; and then,
turning to the Schoolmaster, added, "Wouldn't we, Mr. Pedagog?"

"No, madame," returned Mr. Pedagog, courteously. "You might have been,
but I would not. If I had married you I could never have seen any one
else with pleasure. I should have kept my eyes solely for you."

"John!" cried Mrs. Pedagog, arching her eyebrows.

"Pleasantry, my dear--mere pleasantry," returned the Schoolmaster,
tapping his fingers together and smiling sweetly upon Mrs. Idiot.

"You didn't finish, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot. "You were telling us
how you used to enjoy New-Year's calling before it went out."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Pedagog. "It was charming. I used positively to
look forward to its coming with delight. We women, Mr. Idiot, found the
old custom very delightful."

"But the men, Mrs. Pedagog," said the Idiot, "did you ever think of
them?"

"What else did we think of? What else is there for a woman to think
about?" replied Mrs. Pedagog.

"Jane!" cried Mr. Pedagog.

"_Pleasantry, my dear--mere pleasantry_," returned Mrs. Pedagog,
frigidly. And Mr. Pedagog lit a cigar. It is not always pleasant to be
quoted.

"Still," said the Idiot, "you thought of men only as creatures of the
moment--"

"Entirely," said Mrs. Pedagog.

"And not as creatures of the week following," said the Idiot.

"What has that to do with it?" asked Mrs. Pedagog.

"Much--from the man's stand-point," returned the Idiot. "His digestion
was butchered to make a woman's holiday. Take myself as an example. I
used to make New-Year's calls; and to get through with my list by
midnight, I had to start in at nine o'clock in the morning."

"Nine o'clock is not so early," said Mr. Whitechoker.

"It's early for cake and pickled oysters," said the Idiot. "And for
chicken salad and wedding-cake, and for lemonade and punch, and for
lobster and egg-nog, and for ice-cream and _pâté-de-foie-gras_."

"H'm!" said Mr. Pedagog, reflectively. "That's true."

"Quite so," observed Mr. Whitechoker, brushing off his vest, upon which
the ashes of his cigar had rested. "Especially for the punch."

"There was no punch in my house," said Mrs. Pedagog. "Indeed, I always
served a very simple luncheon. We did have chicken salad, of course, but
the chicken was good and the salad was crisp--"

"I'd swear to it," said the Idiot.

"And we had egg-nog, but there was more egg than nog in it--"

"Again I'd swear to it," said the Idiot, smacking his lips.

"And as for the lobsters, nobody ever complained--"

"He'd have been a lobster himself who would," said the Idiot. "But that
does not prove that no one ever suffered."

"And as for the pickled oysters, no one ever suffered from them that I
knew of," continued the good lady. "They are harmless eaten in
moderation."

[Illustration: "'I FELT AS IF I HAD SWALLOWED AS OVERSHOE'"]

"Exactly right," cried the Idiot. "No gentleman would ever complain of
pickled oysters, even if they were made of inferior rubber, eaten in
moderation. Yet I recall in my own experience a pickled oyster of most
impressive quality. He was not a pickled oyster of the moment. He was
the Admiral Dewey of pickled oysters. In appearance he resembled every
other pickled oyster I ever met, but--well, he kept me in a state of
worry for a month. Just eating him alone was eating pickled oysters in
immoderation. I felt as if I had swallowed an overshoe. He was a
charming pickled oyster, Mrs. Pedagog, and he was devoted to me, but he
involved me in complications alongside of which the Philippine question
is child's play. If a New-Year's caller could have confined his
attentions to the ladies he met no harm would have come to him, but he
couldn't, you know. The day was one continuous round of effort and
indigestibles. What a man got at your house and had to eat merely to
show his appreciation of your hospitality was all right and wholesome.
Your lobster and egg-nog could do him no harm, but he couldn't stop with
yours; he had to continue, and consume lobsters and egg-nog everywhere
else and all day long. The day resolved itself into a magnificent gorge
alongside of which that of Niagara seems like a wagon-rut. It finally
came down to the point where either man or the custom had to die, and
man being selfish, the custom went. Did you ever consider exactly how
much indigestible food an amiable, well-meaning person had to consume in
a round of, say, three dozen calls, Mrs. Pedagog?"

Mr. Brief nodded his approval. "Now you've struck it," he said. "I've
been there, Idiot."

"I must confess," said Mrs. Pedagog, "that I never looked into that
question."

"Well, I'll tell you," the Idiot resumed. "The last time I made
New-Year's calls I figured it out for the doctor the next morning, and
as I recall the statistics, in the course of that day I ate one hundred
and twenty-nine pickled oysters, thirteen plates of chicken salad, seven
plates of lobster salad, five plates of mulled sardines, twenty-three
plates of ice-cream, four hundred and sixty-three macaroons,
eighty-seven sandwiches ranging from lettuce and ham to chicken and
potted goose-liver, enough angel-cake to feed all the angels there are
and two more, sixteen Welsh rarebits that were being made just as I
happened in, and crystallized ginger and salted almonds and marrons to
the extent of about eighteen pounds."

"Mercy!" cried Mrs. Pedagog.

"Say, pa, where was I then?" asked Tommy, his eyes glittering with
delight.

"You were eating green cheese on the moon, Tommy," said the Idiot.

"Wisht I'd been with you," said Tommy. "Must o' been better than bein' a
pie."

"And all of these things," continued the Idiot, with a wink at his son,
"I washed down with six gallons of lemonade, nineteen cups of coffee,
eighteen cups of tea, and a taste of claret punch."

"And how about the egg-nog?" asked the Bibliomaniac, slyly.

"I judge there were about six crates of eggs in it," said the Idiot. "I
never had the nerve to estimate the nog-end of it."

"What did the doctor say when you told him all that?" asked Mrs.
Pedagog.

The Idiot chuckled. "What did he say?" he cried. "Why, I should think
you could guess. He blamed it all on the Welsh rarebits, but he thought
he could get me into shape again in time for the next New Year. I've
never been the same man since."

"Well, the way I look at it," said Mrs. Pedagog, "is that it is a great
pity that women must be deprived of a function that gives them pleasure
because the men make pigs of themselves."

"But you don't understand, Mrs. Pedagog," the Idiot persisted. "I grant
you that the man who eats all that makes a pig of himself, but he has no
choice. He can't help himself. When a charming hostess insists, he'd be
a greater pig if he refused to partake of her hospitality. The custom
involved an inevitable sacrifice of man's digestion upon the altar of
woman. That's all there was about it. If it could have been arranged so
that a man could take a hamper about with him and stow all the cakes and
salads and other good things away in that, and eat them later as he
happened to need or want them, instead of in his own inner self, the
good old custom might have been preserved, but that is impossible in
these conventional days."

"You needn't have eaten it all," put in Mrs. Idiot. "You could have
pretended to eat it and put it down somewhere."

[Illustration: "'I FOUND EIGHT SANDWICHES AND A PINT OF SALTED
ALMONDS'"]

[Illustration: "'THEY WERE FOUND SOME DAYS LATER WHEN THE ROOM WAS PUT
IN ORDER'"]

"I know that, my dear. I didn't even on that occasion eat it all--I only
ate what I told you. I found eight sandwiches and a pint of salted
almonds in my coat-tail pocket the next morning, which I managed
surreptitiously to hide away while my hostesses were getting me
something else, and in one place, while nobody was watching me, I hid a
half-dozen pickled oysters under a sofa, where I suppose they were found
some days later when the room was put in order."

As the Idiot spoke the clock struck twelve, and the guests all rose up.

"Here's to the New Year!" said Mr. Pedagog.

"Not yet," interposed the Idiot. "That's only a signal for the Welsh
rarebits to be brought in. I've sworn them off for the New Year, but I
haven't for the old. The clock is a half-hour fast."

"No, my dear," said Mrs. Idiot. "It was, but I put it back. It's exactly
right now."

"Then," said the Idiot, "I join you in the toast, Mr. Pedagog. Here's to
the New Year: may it bring joy to everybody. Meanwhile may it bring also
the Welsh rarebits."

"I thought you'd sworn off," suggested Mr. Pedagog.

"So I had," replied the Idiot, "but circumstances over which I have no
control force me to postpone my reformation for another twelve months.
If they had been served at half-past eleven I should have stuck to my
resolve; as they have been delayed until twelve-one I cannot do less
than eat them. I do not believe in wilful waste; and besides, it is
quite as much the duty of the host to consume the good things he places
before his guests as it is for the guests to partake. I can wait a year,
I think, without wholly ruining what little digestion my former devotion
to New-Year's calling has left me. Gentlemen, I propose the ladies: May
their future be as golden as this rarebit; and for the men, may they
always be worthy to be the toast upon which that golden future may rest
with the certainty born of confidence."

And the guests fell to and ate each a golden buck to the New Year--all
save Mollie and Tommy. These two important members of the household went
up to their little beds, but just before going to sleep Tommy called
through the door to his little sister:

"Mollie!"

"Yeth!"

"Want to play a game with me to-morrow?"

"Yeth!"

"Well, you get a cake and a pie and some gingersnaps and a lot of apples
and some candy and we'll play New-Year's calls."

"Splendid!" lisped Mollie. "You'll call on me?"

"Yes," said Tommy; "and all you'll have to do will be to force food on
me."

And they soon passed into the land of dreams.




XII

SOME DOMESTIC INVENTIONS


[Illustration: "'THERE'S NOT MUCH MONEY IN STOCKS'"]

"I think I'll give up the business of broking and go into inventing,"
said the Idiot one Sunday morning, as he and Mrs. Idiot and their
friends sat down at breakfast. "There's not much money in stocks, but
the successful inventor of a patent clothes-pin makes a fortune."

"I'd think twice about that before acting," observed Mr. Brief. "There
may not be much money in stocks, but you can work eight hours a day, and
get good pay in a broker's office, while the inventor has to wait upon
inspiration."

"True enough," said the Idiot; "but waiting on inspiration isn't a bad
business in itself. You can play golf or read a rattling good novel, or
go to a yacht-race while you wait."

"But where does the money come in?" asked Mr. Pedagog, his usual
caution coming to the fore.

"Inspiration brings it with her," said the Idiot, "and by the barrel,
too. What's the use of toiling eight hours a day for fifty weeks in a
year for three thousand dollars when by waiting on inspiration in a
pleasant way you make a million all of a sudden?"

"Well," said Mr. Pedagog, indulgently, "if you have the inspiration
lassoed, as you might say, your argument is all right; but if you are
merely going to sit down and wait for it to ring you up on the
telephone, and ask you when and where you wish your barrels of gold
delivered, I think it will be your creditors, and not fortune, who will
be found knocking at your door. How are you going about this business,
provided you do retire from Wall Street?"

"Choose my field and work it," replied the Idiot. "For the present I
should choose the home. That is the field I am most interested in just
now. I should study its necessities, and endeavor to meet whatever these
might demand with an adequate supply. Any man who stays around home all
day will find lots of room for the employment of his talents along
inventive lines."

"You've tried it, have you?" asked Mr. Brief.

"Certainly I have," said the Idiot, "though I haven't invented anything
yet. Why, only last week I stayed home on Monday--wash-day--and a
thousand things that might be invented suggested themselves to me."

"As, for instance?" asked Mrs. Idiot, who was anxious to know of any
possible thing that could mitigate the horrors of wash-day.

[Illustration: "'A NICE LITTLE BASKET-HAT ON HER HEAD TO HOLD THE PINS
IN'"]

"Well, it wouldn't help _you_ much, my dear," said the Idiot, "but the
wash-lady would hail with unmixed delight a substitute for her mouth to
hold clothes-pins in while she is hanging out the clothes. I watched
Ellen in the yard for ten minutes that day, and it was pathetic. There
she was, standing on her tiptoes, hanging innumerable garments on the
line, her mouth full of clothes-pins, and Jimpsonberry's hired man
leaning over the fence trying to shout sweet nothings in her ear. If she
had had a nice little basket-hat on her head to hold the pins in she
could have answered back without stopping her work every other minute
to take them out of her mouth in order to retort to his honeyed
sentiments."

Mrs. Idiot laughed. "Ellen finds time enough to talk and do the washing,
too," she said. "I sometimes think she does more talking than washing."

"No doubt of it; she's only human, like the rest of us," said the Idiot.
"But she might save time to do something else for us if she could do the
washing and the talking at the same time. She may give up the washing,
but she'll never give up the talking. Therefore, why not make the
talking easier?"

"What you need most, I think," put in Mr. Brief, "is an instrument to
keep hired men from leaning over the fence and distracting the attention
of the laundress from her work. That would be a great boon."

"Not unless idleness is a great boon," retorted the Idiot. "Half the
hired men I know would be utterly out of employment if they couldn't
lean over a fence and talk to somebody. Leaning over a fence and talking
to somebody forms seventy-five per cent. of the hired man's daily labor.
He seems to think that is what he is paid for. Still, any one who
objects could very easily remedy the conversational detail in so far as
it goes on over the fence."

"By the use of barbed wire, I presume," suggested Mr. Pedagog.

"By something far more subtle and delicately suggestive," rejoined the
Idiot. "Hired men do not mind barbed-wire fences. They rather like them
when they annoy other people. When they annoy themselves they know how
to treat them. My own man Mike, for instance, minds them not at all.
Indeed, he has taken my pruning-shears and clipped all the barbs off the
small stretch of it we had at the rear end of our lot to keep him from
climbing over for a short cut home."

"With what result?" asked Mr. Brief.

[Illustration: "'AN ELECTRIC NOTICE TO QUIT'"]

"With the result that I had to buy a new pair of pruning-shears," said
the Idiot. "My Anti-Over-the-Fence-Gabber," he continued, "would involve
certain complex details, but it would work. I should have an electric
battery connected with the upper cable of the fence, and an operator
stationed inside of the house, close to a key which would send some
six hundred or seven hundred volts through the cable whenever needed.
Then if I felt that Jimpsonberry's man was interfering with my
laundress, as soon as he leaned over the fence I'd have the operator
send him an electric notice to quit."

"A message?" said Mr. Pedagog.

"No, a plain shock. Two hundred volts as a starter, three hundred as a
reminder, and the full seven hundred if necessary to make the hint
plainer."

"That would be cruel," observed Mrs. Pedagog.

"Not wholly," said the Idiot. "It would be an advantage to the man
himself in one way. Hired men have too little electricity in their
systems, Mrs. Pedagog. If Jimpsonberry's man, for instance, would take
all the electricity I'd give him and apply it to his work,
Jimpsonberry's unpulled dandelions would not be such a constant menace
to my lawn. I compel Mike to weed out my lawn every spring and autumn,
but Jimpsonberry doesn't attend to his at all. He doesn't sleep on it,
and so doesn't bother about it. Consequently, when his dandelions go to
seed the seed is blown over into my grass, and every year I get an
uninvited crop, which at a dollar a thousand would make me a
millionaire."

"Why don't you apply your inventive genius to the discovery of a
seedless dandelion?" asked the Lawyer. "It seems to me that would be the
best solution of the dandelion problem."

"Because Jimpsonberry wouldn't have 'em if I discovered 'em," said the
Idiot. "I judge from the millions he raises every year that he is
satisfied with dandelions as they are. He's got enough for himself, and
never makes any charge for those he gives to his neighbors."

"I think a furnace-feeder would be a good thing, too," the Idiot
continued, in a moment. "My furnace is a chronic sufferer from
indigestion because on some days it is gorged with coal and on others
with ashes. Seems to me if I could get a month's time in which to
concentrate my attention upon a furnace-feeder, I could devise some kind
of a contraption that would invoke the enthusiastic love of the suburban
resident in Arctic latitudes the world over."

"I have often thought of that possibility myself," observed Mr. Pedagog,
his eyes fondly resting upon a steaming plate of griddle-cakes that
had just been brought in. "But coal is a rebellious quantity. A
furnace-feeder would need to be delicately adjusted, and coal cannot be
handled with delicacy. It requires a chute rather than a tube. It must
be manipulated with the shovel, not the sugar-tongs."

"Correct," said the Idiot. "Therefore, _you_ would experiment on a chute
or a shovel, abandoning all idea of refining the coal. I, on the other
hand, would experiment with the coal itself, Mr. Pedagog. Why not
liquefy it, and let it drop automatically into the furnace through a
self-acting spigot?"

"Liquefy coal?" asked Mr. Pedagog.

"Certainly," replied the Idiot. "We liquefy pretty nearly everything
else. If liquid air, why not liquid coal? Everything we have in nature
in these days apparently can be liquefied, and while I am not familiar
with the process, I see no reason why a ton of coal should not be
reduced to such a shape that it can be bottled. Once bottled and
provided with an automatic dropper, it could easily be adjusted so as to
flow in proper quantities into the furnace at proper intervals."

"It would be very expensive. Do you know what a pint of liquid air
costs?" demanded the Doctor.

"No," said the Idiot. "I neither breathe nor drink it. The plain old
stuff is good enough for me, and cheap if you don't have to go to the
mountains or the sea-shore to get your supply."

"Granting coal could be liquefied," the Doctor assented, "I venture to
say that a ton of it would cost as much as five hundred dollars."

"I've no doubt it would," said the Idiot; "but I could afford a ton of
coal at five hundred dollars if my scheme worked. A successful invention
would make bread seem cheap at ten dollars a loaf. There's another thing
I should put my mind on, and that is a method of cooking a cauliflower
so that everybody in the house, as well as the neighbors, should not
know that you are doing so," he continued. "I am particularly fond of
cauliflower, but it is undeniable that in the process of cooking it
becomes obtrusive, almost to the point of ostentation. I've spoken about
it many times. Mike, the gardener, to whom I've spoken on the subject,
thinks the cauliflower itself, if sprinkled with _eau de Cologne_ while
growing, would cease to be obnoxious in the cooking; but that is too
expensive a process. It would take a dozen cases of _eau de Cologne_ to
bring a single cauliflower to maturity. My son, Tommy, has stated that
he thinks it might be boiled in Florida-water instead of in the simple
variety that comes from the pipes. A good suggestion for a small boy,
but also expensive. Hired men and small boys do not think of the
exchequer of the principal in their plans. They don't have to. Their
allowance and wages are usually all velvet--an elegant vulgarism for
surplus--and for my own part I have constantly to veto their little
schemes for the betterment of my condition in order to have any
condition at all left. But as far as the arrangement of an odorless
cauliflower-cooker is concerned, it is as simple as A B C, barring one
or two complications."

"I wish you'd hurry up and invent it," cried Mrs. Idiot, with
enthusiasm. "What are the main features of this simple contrivance?"

"I'd have a boiler, in the first place, in which to boil the animal,"
said the Idiot. "When the water was ready I'd clap the creature into it,
and before it had time to remonstrate I'd fasten a hermetically sealed
cover over the top."

"But when you took it off the results would still be overpowering," said
Mr. Pedagog.

[Illustration: "'FINDING OUT WHAT IS BEING COOKED FOR DINNER'"]

"No, my dear sir," said the Idiot, "for the simple reason that I should
affix a cold-air box and a flue to the hermetically sealed boiler.
Through the cold-air box fresh air would constantly flow into the
boiler. Through the flue all the aromatic drawbacks of the cauliflower
would be carried off through the chimney into the upper air. Anybody who
wished to know whether we were going to have cauliflower for dinner or
not would have to climb up to the roof and sniff at the chimney-top to
find out."

"It _is_ simple, isn't it, Mrs. Idiot?" Mrs. Pedagog said.

"Very," replied Mrs. Idiot. "Indeed, it seems so extremely simple that I
should like to know where the complications lie."

"Where all the complications in cooking lie, my dear," said the
Idiot, "in the cook. The chief complication would lie in getting a cook
who could, or if she could, would, use the thing intelligently."

"I don't see," said Mr. Brief, dryly--"I don't see but that what you
ought to devote your time to, my dear Idiot, is the invention of an
intelligent cook."

"Humph!" laughed the Idiot. "I may be an idiot, Mr. Brief, but I'm not
an ass. There are some things that man may reasonably hope to
accomplish--such as setting fire to the Hudson River, or growing
butternuts on the summit of Mont Blanc--but as for trying to invent an
intelligent cook who would stay in the country for more than two weeks
for less than ten thousand dollars a year, that, sir, is beyond all the
conceptions of the human mind."

"Ain't Bridget intelligent, pa?" asked Tommy.

Here was a complication, for Tommy liked to retail to Bridget the gossip
of the day, and especially what "pa said."

"H'm--ah--oh yes, indeed, she is, Tommy," the Idiot replied, with some
embarrassment. "Very; she's been with us three months."

"How much do you pay her, pa?" asked the boy.

"Well," said the Idiot, "not more than fifteen hundred dollars a month.
Just take another griddle-cake, my son, and remember that there are some
things little boys should not talk about."

"Like tumpany's bald heads?" lisped Mollie, complacently, her eye fixed
upon Mr. Pedagog's shining dome.

"Precisely," observed Mr. Pedagog, appreciating the situation.

And while everybody else laughed the Idiot looked upon his children with
a sternly affectionate face.

"My dear," said he to Mrs. Idiot, "I think it is time the babies got
ready for Sunday-school."




XIII

A SUBURBAN COMPLICATION


"Well, old chap," said the Poet some weeks later, when he happened to be
spending the night off in the suburbs with his old friend, "how goes the
noble art of inventing? Has your horseless cauliflower bloomed as yet?"

"Horseless cauliflower is good, but tautological," said the Idiot. "The
cauliflower is an automobile in itself, without the intervention of man.
Who told you I was inventing instead of broking these days?"

"Mr. Pedagog said something about it the last time I met him," said the
Poet. "He's a mighty good friend of yours. He says you are the most
perfect Idiot he ever met."

"He's a bully good fellow," said the Idiot, affectionately. "You know I
used to think Pedagog wasn't of any earthly use except to teach people
things, but as I look back upon my experience with him he has never
taught me anything that was worth forgetting. So he told you I was going
into invention, did he?"

"Yes; and he said he thought you were going about it in the right way,"
rejoined the Poet. "You weren't spending ten thousand dollars to get a
four-dollar invention on the market, he said, but were inventing things
that you knew at the outset weren't worth risking your money on."

The Idiot smiled broadly.

"He said that, did he? Well, he doesn't know what he is talking about,"
he retorted. "I am spending money on my inventions. I have already
invested fifty cents in my patent Clothes-Pin-Holding Laundry-Bonnet,
and I have strung the wires along my fence to be used in my electric
Hired-Man-Discourager; and when I have managed to save up a few dollars
more I'm going to get a battery to attach to it, when woe betide that
man of Jimpsonberry's if he tries to talk to Maria while she is at work!
Furthermore, I have extended the operations of that same useful
invention so that it will meet a long-felt want in all suburban
communities as a discourager of promiscuous wooing. You never lived
in the country, did you?"

"Not permanently," said the Poet.

[Illustration: "'COURTING HIS BEST GIRL ON SOME OTHER FELLOW'S STONE
WALL'"]

"Then you are not aware of a singular habit the young country swain has
of courting his best girl on some other fellow's stone wall after the
sun goes down," said the Idiot. "Some balmy evening next spring, if
you'll come up here I'll show you one of the features of suburban life
that will give you an idea for a poem. That stone wall that runs along
the front of my place has been the scene of more engagements than I can
tell you of. Many a time when I have come home late at night I have
counted as many as ten couples sitting on the cold coping of that wall
telling each other how beautiful the world is, and holding each other on
with loving arms."

"Rather an affecting scene, that," said the Poet.

"It was at first," rejoined the Idiot, "and I rather liked to see it.
Indeed, I once suggested to Mrs. Idiot that we should have the coping
upholstered, so that they might sit more comfortably. I even wanted to
put a back along the inner side of it for them to lean against, but
after a while it palled. We couldn't sit out on our own front porch on
a summer evening and talk without sentimental interruptions that were
demoralizing to a sustained conversation. We'd try to talk, for
instance, about Browning, or Tennyson, or Le Gallienne, or some other
poet of their class, when we'd be interrupted by such sentiments as,
'Ess I is,' and 'I's oo ducky,' and 'Ain't de moon boofer?' Then when we
had guests we never dared to take them out-of-doors, but remained cooped
up inside the house, because Mrs. Idiot feared to intrude upon the
sacred right of those ten couples to do their courting comparatively
unobserved."

"It must have been a nuisance," said the Poet.

"It grew to be so; but I hadn't the heart to stop it, even if I could
have done so, so I put up a hedge to hide them from view and soften the
sound of their voices; but it didn't work very long. They didn't seem to
appreciate my motive, and it so happened that the hedge which I put up
with the most innocent of intentions was a Japanese quince that blossoms
out in thorns half an inch long, to an extent which suggests the fretful
porcupine. These, for some reason or other, excited the animosity of
my twenty young friends on the wall, and at the end of the season there
were not two consecutive feet of the hedge that had not been hacked and
cut to pieces by my indignant but uninvited guests."

"What impudence!" cried the Poet.

"Only the ardor of youth," observed the Idiot, calmly. "Put yourself in
the same place. Suppose that you, just as you were about to declare your
undying love for the girl of your choice, and while gently stealing your
arm about her waist, were to have the back of your hand ripped off by a
brutal hedge?"

"I see," laughed the Poet. "I dare say I should be indignant."

"They were properly so," said the Idiot, "properly so; and neither Mrs.
Idiot nor I really blamed them."

[Illustration: "'HOLDING UP A GREAT OSAGE ORANGE'"]

"We let the matter rest, and made no complaint," he continued. "Time
went on, and the courters became a trifle more assertive. One of them
came into the house one evening and demanded to know what I meant by
assaulting him and his lady friend, holding up a great Osage orange
which he alleged to have been the murderous weapon I had used; and I
really had to apologize, for I was guilty. It happened that while
walking about my small preserves I had picked up this orange, which had
fallen onto my lawn from a tree on Jimpsonberry's place, and had
unthinkingly tried to see how far I could throw it. It went just over
the hedge, and had unceremoniously knocked Strephon's hat into the
middle of next week and frightened Phyllis into hysterics. I was placed
on the defensive, but for the life of me I couldn't help laughing, with
the result that Strephon stalked angrily away, alleging that I should
hear from him further in the matter."

"And did you?" asked the Poet.

"No," said the Idiot, "I never did; but the incident rather soured me
towards the people who seemed to regard my stone wall as their property.
I even came to feel like purchasing a gatling-gun and loading it with
Osage oranges for the purpose of repelling them, but even under this
provocation I still continued to ignore the matter."

"You are too easy-going," suggested the Poet.

"I was," said the Idiot, "until they began to use the sidewalk that runs
parallel with the wall as a tablet upon which to inscribe in letters
of flame their undying affection. One Sunday morning, as Mrs. Idiot and
I started for church, we were horrified to find our flagstones scribbled
all over with poetry, done in chalk, after the order of

  "Roses is pink, and violets is blue,
  Sugar is sweet, and so be you.

[Illustration: "'THE PICTURE OF A HEART WITH AN ARROW DRAWN THROUGH
IT'"]

"Further along was the picture of a heart with an arrow drawn through
it, and the two names 'Larry' and 'Mame' written on either side. And one
unusually affectionate youth had actually cut the initials of his young
lady and himself in the top of the coping, with a cold-chisel, I
suspect. It's there yet. It was then my spirit rose up into fierce
denunciation. That night, when the clans had gathered and were going
through the initial stages I marched out in front of them, cleared my
throat ostentatiously, and made a speech. It was the most nervous speech
I ever made; worse than after-dinner speaking by a good deal. I called
their attention to how I had suffered: referred pathetically to the
destruction of the hedge; inveighed sarcastically against the
Osage-orange man; told them in highly original fashion that worms, if
taken at the ebb that leads on to fortune, would surely turn and rend
their persecutors, and that I'd had enough. I forgave them the hedge; I
forgave them the annoyance they had cost me, but I asserted that I'd see
them all condemned to eternal celibacy before I would permit my sidewalk
to be turned into an anthology of love, and my coping into an intaglio
of eternal blessedness. I requested them if they wished to write poetry
to write it upon their own hearths, and if they had any inscriptions to
cut to chip in and buy an obelisk of their own and hieroglyph to their
hearts' content. I even offered to buy them each a slate and pencil,
which they might bring with them when they came, upon which to send
their sentiments down to posterity, and I finished with what I consider
to be a pleasing perversion of Longfellow's poem on the Woodman, with a
few lines beginning:

  "Scribbler, spare that sidewalk.

"Then I departed, threatening to have them all arrested."

"Good!" said the Poet. "I didn't think you'd ever do it. You have nerve
enough, but you are too good-natured."

"I wasn't good-natured then," said the Idiot, regretfully; "and when I
got through I stalked back into the house, scolded Mollie, sent Tommy to
bed, and behaved like a bear for the rest of the evening."

"And the people on the wall? They slunk away in despair, I suppose,"
said the Poet.

[Illustration: "'IT TOOK MY HIRED MAN TWO WEEKS TO SCRUB IT OUT'"]

"Not they," said the Idiot; "not by a long shot. They combined against
me, and next morning when I started for town I found my sidewalk in
worse shape than ever. One flag had written upon it the pleasing mandate
'Go drown yourself.' Another bore the mystic word 'Chump' in great
capital letters, and at the end of my walk was a pastel portrait of
myself, of rough and awkward composition, labelled with my name in full.
It took my hired man two weeks to scrub it out. And on the following
Hallowe'en they strung a huge banner on my telephone wires, inscribed
'The Idiot Asylum,' and every blessed gate I have to my name had been
removed from the premises."

"What an outrage!" cried the Poet.

"Not a bit of it. Merely a suburban ebullition," said the Idiot. "They
don't mean anything by it. They are mere children, after all, and from
their point of view I have interfered with their rights."

"And you propose to stand all this?" asked the Poet. "If I were you I'd
get a pile of broken bottles, as they do in England, and place them
along the top of that wall so that they couldn't possibly use it."

"Brutal custom, that," said the Idiot. "May do for Englishmen; won't do
here at all. In the first place, it spoils the appearance of the wall;
in the second place, it is not efficacious; in the third place, it would
place me in a false position. Everybody'd soon be asking where I got all
those bottles. An Englishman drinks enough beer in the course of a week
to keep his walls covered with broken bottles for a century. I don't,
and I'm not going to buy bottles. I've got a better scheme."

"Ah!" cried the Poet. "Now we are coming to the invention."

"Merely an extension of my 'Hired-Man-Discourager,'" said the Idiot.
"Simple, and I trust efficacious. I am going to put a live wire along
the coping of my wall. Broken bottles are cheap, my dear Poet, but
they don't work. If I put broken bottles on my wall the Amalgamated
Brotherhood of Wooers would meet on my lawn and pass resolutions against
me, and ultimately they would demand the use of my parlor, unless I
misunderstand their nature.

"The lovers' rights must be respected always, and I'm truly thankful
that they have stopped short at my frontage. When they operate along my
frontier-line they are harmless, interesting, even amusing. If they
carry their principles through and penetrate beyond the edge, why, then
Mrs. Idiot and I will have to give it up.

"My scheme is to make them feel that they are welcome to the wall, but
to make the wall--well, to give an element of surprise to the wall. Just
as Jimpsonberry's man is soon to be surprised electrically, which is
legitimately, so do I propose to surprise these inconsiderate persons
who cut down my hedges, who scribble up my sidewalk with their poems,
and who hang Hallowe'en banners on my telephone wires. I wish them all
well, but next spring when they attempt to revive the customs of the
past they will find that even I am resentful."

"But how?"

"I shall have a wire running along the coping, as I have already said,
that between the hours of eight and twelve p.m. will be so full of
shocking things that my uninvited guests will cease to bother me. Can
you imagine the effect of a live wire upon ten loving couples engaged in
looking at the moon while sitting on it?"

"Yet you claim to insist upon their rights as lovers," said the Poet,
deprecatingly.

"Certainly I do," said the Idiot. "Man has a right to make love wherever
he can. If he can't make love on my wall, let him make love somewhere
else."

"But where?" cried the Poet. "Your swains up here have no home,
apparently."

"Or Jimpsonberry's wall," said the Idiot. "By the way, do you know
anything about moths?"




XIV

SOME CONSIDERATION OF THE MOTH


"Do you know anything about the habits of moths?" repeated the Idiot.

"Moths?" echoed the Poet, eying the Idiot closely, the transition from
live wires to moths proving rather too sudden for his comprehension.
"No, I don't know anything about moths except that I have heard that
they are an unmitigated nuisance."

"They are worse than a nuisance," said the Idiot. "They are a devouring
element, and they are worse than fire. If your house catches fire you
can summon an engine and have it put out, and what damage it does you
can collect for if you are careful enough to keep your possessions
insured; but with the moth it is different. There isn't any moth
department in town that you can ring up, nor is there a
moth-extinguisher that you can keep close at hand to fight them with.
Furthermore, there is no moth-insurance company here or elsewhere to
protect the man who suffers damage at their teeth, that I know of.

"He is a mean, sneaking, underhanded element, the moth is. Fire has a
decent sense of the proprieties. Moths have none at all. When fire
attacks you it smokes, and crackles, and hisses, and roars, and lets you
know in clarion tones that it has come. The moth steals upon you in the
dead of night, and chews up your best trousers, gorges himself upon your
wife's furs, tickles his palate with your swellest flannel golf-shirt,
munches away upon your handsomest rug, punches holes in your best
sofa-cushions with his tusks, and then silently folds his tent and
steals away without so much as a thank-you for his meal. For unmitigated
meanness commend me to the moth!"

"You seem to speak with feeling," said the Poet, with a smile. "Have you
suffered?"

[Illustration: "'AN UNPAID GROCER'S BILL BECOMES AN ABSOLUTE PLEASURE'"]

"Suffered?" cried the Idiot. "Suffered is not the word. They have
tortured me. Alongside of the moth and his nefarious work even a
book-agent pales into insignificance, and an unpaid grocer's bill
becomes an absolute pleasure. You can meet a book-agent on his own
ground, for you know his limitations. I have done so myself. Only
yesterday one of them called upon me to sell me a Cyclopedia of Cookery,
and before he got away I had actually sold him a copy of your poems."

"Ah," said the Poet, shaking his head. "You sold my gift, did you?"

"Not a bit of it," laughed the Idiot. "When your book came out I bought
a copy, and two days later you sent me another with an inscription,
which I treasure affectionately. I sold him the one I bought."

"You are a beautiful Idiot," said the Poet, slapping his knee
enthusiastically.

"I don't lay claim so much to beauty as to sublimity," said the Idiot,
lighting a cigar. "And even that is not to my credit. Beauty and
sublimity are gifts. No amount of cultivation can produce genius when it
does not exist. When I see a beautiful woman it is not she that I
admire. I admire the gracious Hand that made her."

"Give me that idea, old man!" cried the Poet.

"It is yours from this on," said the Idiot, with a sigh. "I am not equal
to it. I may be able to think thoughts, but thoughts are of no more use
to me than a piano is to a man who can't read music. But we are becoming
discursive. We were talking about moths, not thoughts. You said that I
must have suffered, and I said that I had been tortured, and I have. My
evening clothes have been ruined by them; my best shirts have been eaten
by them; my silk hat, in which I have taken much pride, has four bald
spots on its side because of their insatiable appetite, and as far as I
can find out, I have no redress. You can't sue a moth for damages, you
know, with any degree of satisfaction."

"Why should you expect to sue a moth for damages any more than to have a
mosquito indicted for assault?" suggested the Poet.

"Oh, as for that," said the Idiot, "you can treat the mosquito without
much difficulty. He merits capital punishment, and if you are yourself
alert you can squash him at the moment of his crime. But the moth is
different. You are absolutely helpless in the face of him. He works
in secret."

"I am told that there are such things as camphor-balls," observed the
Poet.

"There are," said the Idiot. "And I truly think the moth enjoys them as
much as a young girl enjoys a military ball. Whenever we give a
camphor-ball the moths attend, and as far as I can find out dance all
through it. They seem to enjoy functions of that nature. Furthermore, I
have yet to meet the man who likes to go about in a suit of clothes that
smells like a drug-store. I don't. I hate the odor of camphor, and if I
have my choice of going to a dinner in a perforated dress-suit or in one
that is redolent of the camphor-ball, I prefer the one with holes in it.
What I can't understand is why a race as proud as the one to which you
and I belong should have to knuckle under to an inferior lot of insects
such as the moth represents."

[Illustration: "'THE LION, THE ELEPHANT, THE TIGER, ALL HAVE THEIR WORK
TO DO'"]

"I suppose there is something about it that we cannot understand," said
the Poet, dreamily. "All created things have their uses. The lion, the
elephant, the tiger, the boa-constrictor, all have their work to do in
life. Even the mosquito has his mission, whatever it may be. You must
admit this. Why not, therefore, admit that the moth serves a purpose in
the great scheme of life?"

"My dear Poet," said the Idiot, "far be it from me to deny the truth of
what you say. There is hardly a living creature that I have ever
encountered in all my life that has not had some truly utilitarian
quality in its make-up. The lion is a splendid creature, and with the
bear and the fox and the rhinoceros and the tapir he serves a purpose.
They at least teach boys geography, and teach it interestingly. The boy
who knows where the tapir hath its lair knows more geography than I do.
My son Tommy has learned more of geography from a visit to the circus
where those animals are shown than he ever learned from books. I can
quite see likewise the utilitarian value of the mosquito. He keeps the
sea-shore from being overcrowded, and he prevents some people from
sleeping too much. He is an accomplished vocalist, and from my own point
of view is superior to a Wagner opera, since Wagner opera puts me to
sleep, while the magnificent discords of the mosquito keep me awake. But
the moth is beyond me. What his contribution to the public welfare
may be I cannot reason out, although I have tried."

"And you find nothing in his favor?" asked the Poet.

"Much," replied the Idiot, "but he has no system. His mission is to eat
old clothes, but he is such a very disgusting glutton that he does not
discriminate between old and new, and I have no use for him. If in his
search for a meal he would choose the garments of three years ago, which
I ought not to wear because they are so old-fashioned as to make me
conspicuous when I do wear them, it would be all right. But the moth is
no such discriminating person. He is not a lover of old vintages. When
he calls in a number of his brother moths to dine at his expense he does
not treat them to an overcoat of '89, or to a dress-suit of '93, or to a
silk hat laid down in '95. He wants the latest thing, and as far as I
can find out he gets it. I have just been compelled to lay in a new
stock of under and over clothes because the ones I had have been served
upon his table."

"The moth must live," observed the Poet.

[Illustration: "'THEY EAT UP MY NEW CLOTHES'"]

[Illustration: "'WASTED MY ENERGY UPON THE UNRESPONSIVE AIR'"]

"I'm perfectly willing he should if he'll only discriminate," retorted
the Idiot. "We have enough old clothes in this house, my dear Poet, to
give a banquet of seventeen courses to six hundred moths every night for
the next six months. If they would content themselves with that I should
be satisfied. But they won't. They eat up my new clothes; they destroy
my new hats; they munch away upon my most treasured golf-vests. That is
why I asked you if you knew anything about moths. I am anxious to reform
them. As you have said, I have gone into inventing, and my inventions
are wholly designed to meet long-felt wants in all households. The man
who invents a scheme to circumvent or properly to satisfy the appetite
of the moth will find his name indissolubly linked with fame. I have
thought, and thought, and thought about it. The moth must either be
domesticated or extinguished. I have tried to extinguish him, but
without avail. When he has flown forth I have endeavored to punch him in
the head, and I have wasted my energy upon the unresponsive air. Did you
ever undertake to punch a moth in the head?"

"Never," said the Poet. "I am not a fighter."

"My dear boy," rejoined the Idiot, "I don't know a hero in real life or
in fiction who could meet a moth on his own ground. I read about Mr.
Willie B. Travers, of New York, who can drive four horses about the
arena at the horse show without turning a hair. I read about Emerson
McJones, of Boston, putting up his face against the administration on a
question of national import. I have read of the prowess of Alexander, of
Cæsar, of D'Artagnan, of Bonaparte, and of Teddy Roosevelt, but there
isn't a man among 'em who can fight the moth. You can bombard him with a
gatling-gun loaded to the muzzle with camphor-balls, and he still waves
his banner defiantly in your face. You may lunge at him with a rapier,
and he jumps lightly aside, and to express his contempt bites a hole in
your parlor hangings. You can turn the hose on him, and he soars
buoyantly away out of reach. You can't kill him, because you can't catch
him. You can't drive him away, and until we go back to the dress of the
knights of old and wear nickel-plated steel clothing, and live in rooms
of solid masonry, we can't starve him out. There is, therefore, only one
thing to do, and that is to domesticate him. If you in the course of
your investigations into nature have ever discovered any trait in the
moth that science can lay hold upon, something through which we can
appeal to his better nature, if he has such a thing, you will be
conferring a great boon upon the whole domestic world. What I want to
find out is if he possesses some particularly well-defined taste; if
there is any one kind of texture or fabric that he likes better than
another. If there is such a thing I'll have a brand-new suit made of
that same material especially for him, furnish a nice comfortable, warm
spot in the attic as a dining-room, and let him feed there forevermore,
when and how he pleases. The manners and customs of moths are an open
book to most of us. His tastes are as mysterious as the ocean's depths."

The Poet shook his head dubiously. "I am afraid, my dear Idiot, that you
have at last tackled a problem that will prove too much for you. How to
get at the point you desire is, I fear, impossible of discovery," he
said.

"It would seem so," replied the Idiot. "But I shall not despair. If the
ordinary cook of commerce can be made humanly intelligent I do not see
any reason why we should abandon so comparatively simple a proposition
as the domesticization of the moth."

Tommy and Mollie had been listening with great interest, and as the
Idiot finished Mollie observed that she thought the best way to do was
to ask the moth what he liked most, but Tommy had a less conciliatory
plan.

"Best thing's to get rid of 'em altogether, pa," he said. "Mollie and
I'll squash 'em for you for fi' cents apiece."

Which struck the Poet as the most practical idea that had been advanced
during the discussion.




XV

SOME CONSIDERATION OF THE BURGLAR


"Are you ever bothered much by burglars off here in the country?" asked
Mr. Pedagog one spring afternoon, as he and the Idiot and the youngsters
strolled about the Idiot's small farm.

"No," said the Idiot. "They've only visited me twice."

"Only twice, eh?" observed the Schoolmaster. "Well, I should think that
was often enough, considering that you haven't lived here more than a
year and a half."

"It was," said the Idiot. "I didn't say I wanted them to come again, did
I?"

"Of course not," returned Mr. Pedagog. "But you said 'only twice,' as if
two visits of that nature were less than might have been expected."

"Well, aren't they?" asked the Idiot. "Just make a little calculation.
I've lived on this place precisely five hundred and ninety-four days,
and, of course, an equal number of nights. It seems to me that in
breaking into my house only twice when they might have come every night
shows a degree of restraint upon our Suburban Burglary Company that is
worthy of the highest commendation. You, of course, refer to
professional burglars, don't you?"

Mr. Pedagog laughed. "Are there any amateur burglars?"

"Are there!" ejaculated the Idiot. "Well, rather. There is the Gasman,
and man who inspects the water-meter, and the Iceman, and the Plumber.
If you refer to that class, why, I have them with me always."

"Which of the two classes do you prefer?" asked Mr. Pedagog, with a
chuckle.

"Well, I'm not quite sure as to that," returned the Idiot. "I've often
wondered myself whether I preferred the straight-out honest pirate, who
does his work surreptitiously by night, and who doesn't pretend to be
anything but a pirate, or the sleek, insinuating chap, who comes into
our house by day, and runs up a bill against you which in his heart of
hearts he knows is not a proper one. There are burglars and burglars in
this world, Mr. Pedagog, and the one who lands in the penitentiary is
not always a bigger rascal than the fellow who holds the respect of the
community and sets himself up as a prominent citizen. Highwaymen may be
divided into classes, some of them respectable, others not. There was
Dick Turpin, who ran honest risks to obtain a living; there are men in
Wall Street who work greater ruin, and are held in higher esteem. There
is the footpad who takes your watch, and pawns it to buy bread for his
starving family, and there is the very charming young person who sits
behind a table at a church fair, and charges you seven dollars for a
fifty-cent sofa-cushion. So it goes. Socially I prefer the esteemed
citizen who makes me pay twenty-eight dollars for ten dollars' worth of
gas; but when it comes down to a strict business basis I must say I have
lost less money through the operations of the professional thief than
through those of the amateur highwayman. Take a recent case in my own
experience, for instance. Only last week I sent anonymously a small
clock which cost me twenty dollars to a guild fair here in town, and
Mrs. Idiot bought it for a birthday present for me for forty dollars. In
other words, I have a twenty-dollar clock on my hands that has cost me
sixty dollars."

"But you have the satisfaction of knowing that you have contributed to
the good work of the guild," suggested Mr. Pedagog.

"That is true enough," said the Idiot; "but the guild is only forty
dollars to the good. They'd have been better off if I had given them
fifty dollars in cash, and I'd have saved ten."

"But you have the clock," insisted Mr. Pedagog.

"I certainly have," replied the Idiot; "and if time is money I shall
soon be rich, for that clock makes time to beat the band. If it keeps on
as it has started and we stand by it, we shall soon be about a month
ahead of the sun. It gains a week every forty-eight hours. If that clock
were truthful, I should be a centenarian at forty."

"But you're not sorry you gave it?" said Mr. Pedagog, deprecatingly.

"Not at all," said the Idiot. "My only regret is that Mrs. I. bought it.
But," he added, hastily, "she needn't know that."

"I won't say a word," said Mr. Pedagog.

"I won't, neither, pa," said Tommy, with a degree of complacency which
showed that the temptation to tell was great.

"Well, I won't say mor'n two or three words about it, anyhow," put in
Mollie, not anxious to commit herself to perpetual silence on the
subject.

"It is the most beautiful clock I ever saw," said the Idiot, quickly,
realizing the possibilities of Mollie's two or three words.

"That's what I fink," said Mollie, "and I'm goin' to tell mamma that you
said so."

"All right," said the Idiot. "Suppose you and Tommy run right up and
tell her now."

"I'd rather hear you talk, pa," said Tommy.

"He does take after you, doesn't he?" said Mr. Pedagog.

"Yes," said the Idiot, "he does. He likes to hear me talk as much as I
do, bless him!"

"It is a commendable sign in a son," observed Mr. Pedagog. "But tell
about the two professionals. Did they get anything?"

"They did," said the Idiot. "And at the same time I lost nothing. The
first chap came on the scene, along about two o'clock in the morning. He
was a very industrious mechanic, and I regret to say he was not
adequately paid for his services. He tackled the safe." At this point
the Idiot threw back his head and laughed heartily.

"I have seen the safe," said Mr. Pedagog, "and to tell you the truth, my
dear Idiot, I have wondered at your choosing so obvious a receptacle for
your valuables. It does not, to my mind, deny itself as a safe should.
It advertises the fact that your silver, your wife's jewels perhaps, are
within. I have spoken once or twice to our friend Mr. Brief about it."

"No doubt," replied the Idiot. "However, I can't see why a safe has any
disadvantages."

"It lies in this," said Mr. Pedagog, impressively. "You confess at once
to the burglar the exact location of the things he's after. Without a
safe your silver, or Mrs. Idiot's jewels, such as they are, might be
found anywhere in the house. But when you take the trouble to buy a
safe, any burglar in creation who has ordinary common-sense must know
that your valuables are concentrated in that one spot."

"That, I rejoice to say," said the Idiot, "is the burglar's view."

"You should not rejoice," said Mr. Pedagog, with some of his old-time
severity. "You make his work so comparatively easy that he is content to
follow a base profession, as you have termed it. Truly, I wonder at you.
You place on your first floor a bald safe--"

"I haven't seen any advertised as having a full head of hair," observed
the Idiot, complacently.

"You misunderstand me," said Mr. Pedagog. "When I say bald I mean
evident, plain, obvious. You practically say: Here are the things which
I value. What is to be found within this safe, Mr. Burglar, _are the
very things you are after_. Therefore, say you to the burglar: Attack
this safe. Break it open, rifle it of its contents; in other words, here
is the swag, as I believe it is called."

"You are wholly right," said the Idiot. "I bought that safe for that
precise reason, and I bought a big one and a strong one. But you don't
know the story of that safe, do you, Mr. Pedagog?"

"I do not," said the Schoolmaster.

"Then let me tell you," said the Idiot. "That safe has been broken open,
and by a professional burglar. The burglar had his tools, and he had
his expert knowledge of their use. He arrived at my house, as I recall
the situation, somewhere about--ah--two o'clock at night. He bored at
the lock until three. He fooled about the combination. He did everything
that a respectable burglar might be expected to do, and--"

"He failed, of course, since you say you have lost nothing," said Mr.
Pedagog.

"Not at all," said the Idiot. "After two hours and fifty-five minutes'
work on that safe he got it open. And--"

"And?" queried Mr. Pedagog.

"He found it empty," said the Idiot; "absolutely empty. There was not a
spoon, a fork, a tea-pot, or a diamond necklace, or even a scrap of
paper in it."

"Then why do you have it," said Mr. Pedagog.

"Merely to keep the burglar busy while he is in my house, and to make
him expert in honest work. An ordinary mechanic, intelligent enough to
get that safe open by night or by day, would be entitled to at least two
dollars for his services. The individual involved got it open; and when
he opened it--"

"Found nothing!" cried Mr. Pedagog.

"Exactly," said the Idiot, pulling away on his cigar. "I suppose I
should have left a check inside payable to bearer for a dollar and a
half to compensate him for his trouble, but I am so neglectful that I
really didn't."

"And you bought a safe--"

"Merely to provide employment for the unemployed burglar," said the
Idiot. "That is all a safe is good for, Mr. Pedagog. Experience has
shown that the house-safe isn't worth the paint it is covered with in
the matter of protection. But as a decoy it works to a charm. A safe, in
other words, is a splendid thing to keep things out of, as well as to
keep the burglar busy while he is your guest. If our particular visitor
had not spent all his time breaking the safe open he might have been
able to locate our spoons."

"It is a pity," said Mr. Pedagog, dryly, "that you did not add to the
impression the futility of his work made upon his mind a short note of
admonition indicating to him that he might be in better business."

"My dear Mr. Pedagog," said the Idiot, "that would have been rude.
Invited or otherwise, the man was a guest in my house, and a note of
that kind would have savored of sarcasm, or, if not, would have placed
me in the position of having taken advantage of my guest's weakness to
be facetious at his expense."

"You take an original view of it," said Mr. Pedagog.

"Not a bit of it," returned the Idiot. "I got the idea from a Boston
girl. Once when she and her sister-in-law found themselves alone at
night in a huge country-house they were suddenly overcome with fear of
burglars, and rather than run any personal risk from the midnight
marauder they left a big card on top of the safe inscribed with these
words: 'Dear Sir,--The combination of this safe is 11-16-91. There is
nothing in it. If you must have our silver, call at the Shawmut Safe
Deposit Company, where it is now stored.' The two girls were cousins of
mine."

The Schoolmaster smiled again. "There must be a streak of your
particular kind of genius running all through your family," said he.

"True--there is," said the Idiot. "I'm not the only Idiot in my tribe."

"And the second burglar. How about him?" asked Mr. Pedagog.

"Oh, he was easy," said the Idiot. "I compromised with him. You see, I
met him on his way out. I was coming home late, and just as I arrived he
was leaving. I invited him back, lit the gas in the dining-room, and
asked him to join me in a bit of cold tongue and a bottle of beer. He
tried to shuffle out of it, but when I said I preferred to reason with
him rather than have him arrested he sat down, and we talked the
situation over. I discovered that for about three hundred dollars' worth
of my stuff that he had in a bag slung over his shoulder he might get as
much as fifty dollars, and at great risk. I showed him how foolish that
was, and offered to give him forty dollars if he'd leave the stuff, so
saving me two hundred and sixty dollars, and avoiding all trouble for
himself. He didn't like it at first, but under the genial influence of
the beer and the cold tongue and my conversation he finally yielded, and
walked out of my house with a check drawn to bearer for forty dollars in
his pocket."

"I am astonished at you!" cried Mr. Pedagog. "You compounded a felony."

"Not exactly," said the Idiot. "I should have done so if I hadn't
stopped payment on the check the next day."

"Oh," said Mr. Pedagog, "I see!"

"All I lost was the revenue-stamp on the check," said the Idiot.

"And did you ever hear from the man again?"

"Yes," observed the Idiot. "I met him on the train a day or two
later--sat next to him in the smoking-car, in fact."

"And did he know you?"

"Yes. We had a very pleasant chat going to town. He said he was moving
away from here. He couldn't stand it, he said. He was going to work in
some new field where a man could get living pay for his work. Said he'd
been robbed by some of our best people; what's the use of working for
nothing? he asked. The poor man was kept down, and all that sort of
talk."

"And you parted friends?"

"Yes," said the Idiot. "I felt rather sorry for him, and when he said
good-bye I gave him a cigar and a five-dollar bill, and that was the end
of him. I have since received a letter from him in which he said that my
kindness was appreciated, and that I could leave my valuables out on the
lawn all night hereafter with perfect impunity. 'There isn't a thief in
our whole suburban gang would be mean enough to touch it after your
kindness to me,' he wrote."

"Extraordinary!" said Mr. Pedagog.

"Very," said the Idiot. "Nevertheless, I have not taken his hint about
leaving my silver out-of-doors, and have worked as hard as ever on my
patent burglar-alarm."

"Oh, indeed! Have you a new idea in that line?" asked the Schoolmaster.

"Yes," said the Idiot. "It is wholly novel. It is designed to alarm the
burglar, and not scare the people in the house. Did you ever hear of
anything like that before?"

"Never!" ejaculated Mr. Pedagog, with enthusiasm. "How is it to work?"

"That," said the Idiot, "is what I am trying to find out. When I do I'll
let you know, Doctor."




XVI

CONCLUSION


  MR. AND MRS. IDIOT
  REQUEST THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY
  AT DINNER
  ON THURSDAY EVENING, May 31, 1900
  AT HALF-AFTER SEVEN O'CLOCK
  R.S.V.P.       LAST CALL

Handsomely engraved, a card bearing the above inscription was sent about
the middle of May to all the Idiot's old friends of Mrs.
Smithers-Pedagog's select home for gentlemen, and it is needless to say
that they all accepted.

"I wonder what the dickens he means by 'Last Call,'" said Mr. Brief to
the Genial Old Gentleman who occasionally imbibed. "Sounds like the
warning of the dining-car porter on a Pullman train."

"I'm sure I can't imagine," said the other; "and what's more, I'm
content to wait and find out. Of course you are going?"

"I am, indeed," said Mr. Brief. "I'd travel farther than that for the
pleasure of an hour with the dear old boy, and particularly now that he
has so good a cook. Dined there lately?"

"Yes," said the Genial Old Gentleman.

"Had any of those mulled sardines he gives you Sunday nights?"

"More than was good for me. Ain't they fine?" said the Genial Old
Gentleman, smacking his lips ecstatically.

"Immense!" said Mr. Brief. "A cook that can mull sardines like that is
worth her weight in gold. Where do you suppose he got her?"

"Why, he married her!" cried the Genial Old Gentleman, promptly. "Mrs.
Idiot cooks those herself, on the chafing-dish. Didn't you know that?"

"No," said Mr. Brief. "I happened in late Sunday night, and we had 'em.
They were so awfully good I didn't do a thing but eat, and forgot to
ask who cooked 'em."

"It's the way of the world," sighed the Genial Old Gentleman. "We old
bachelors have to get along on what comes to us, but the energetic chap
who goes out into the world and marries the right sort of a woman--Jove,
what a lucky chap he is!"

"There's some truth in that," agreed Mr. Brief; "but, on the whole, just
think what a terrible thing it would be to marry a bad cook, and to have
to eat everything she prepared with an outward show of delight just to
keep peace in the family."

"That's your cautious lawyer's view of it," said the Genial Old
Gentleman.

"Why the deuce don't you get married yourself, then," said Mr. Brief.
"If you feel that way--"

"I don't want to," said the Genial Old Gentleman. "Fact is, Brief, old
man, all I should ever marry for would be the comfort of a home, and I
can always get that by going up to the Idiot's."

The other invited guests were no less perplexed by the final words of
the Idiot's invitation, and with the pleasure of accepting was mingled
an agreeable curiosity to know what was meant by "Last Call." The
evening came, and all were present. It was a goodly company, and by
special favor the children were allowed to sit up and partake; and, what
was more, Mary, the housemaid of the old days, assisted in the serving
of the dinner.

"Seems like old times," said Mr. Whitechoker, beaming at Mrs. Pedagog
and smiling pleasantly at Mary. "I shall almost expect our host to be
sarcastic."

"Sarcasm, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot, unfolding his napkin, "is
all right in its place, but as I have grown older I haven't found that
having given rein to it I was happier afterwards. Sometimes, no doubt,
Mrs. Pedagog has thought me rude--"

"Never!" said the ancient landlady.

"Well, there's something worse than having others think you rude," said
the Idiot. "That's realizing yourself that you have been so, and I hope
Mrs. Pedagog will accept here and now an apology--a blanket
apology--which shall cover a multitude of past sins."

"My dear Idiot," said Mrs. Pedagog, "do you know how I have always
thought of you?"

"As a son," said Mr. Pedagog. "And I have felt towards you as a father."

"I wonder you didn't give me a thrashing once in a while, then," said
the Idiot.

"We have often wished to," observed Mr. Pedagog.

"John!" cried Mrs. Pedagog.

"Well, _I_ have," said Mr. Pedagog. "Mrs. Pedagog has all the amiable
weakness of a woman towards her naughty boy. Spank him next time, not
this."

Everybody laughed, and the Idiot rose from his place and walked to Mrs.
Pedagog's side and kissed her.

"You're a nice old mommie," he said, "and the naughty boy loves you.
He'll be hanged if he'll kiss his daddy, though!" he added, with a
glance at Mr. Pedagog.

"I will," said Mollie; and she did so.

The old Schoolmaster returned the little girl's salute with emphasis.

"Bless you, little one!" he said, huskily. "I love you even as I loved
your papa."

"I'm a-goin' to kiss everybody," said Tommy; and he started in with Mary
and put his little scheme through to the bitter end. "What are we going
to have for dessert?" he added, complacently, as he resumed his seat.

"Idiot," said Mr. Brief, when the third course had been served, "what do
you mean by 'Last Call?'"

"We are going to give up housekeeping," said the Idiot.

"No trouble, I hope," said Mr. Whitechoker.

"Lots!" ejaculated the Idiot. "But not very troublesome troubles. The
fact is we intend to travel."

"To travel, eh?" said the Genial Old Gentleman. "Where?"

"Abroad," replied the Idiot. "We have never been abroad, you know. I've
been abroad, and Mrs. Idiot has been abroad, but _we_ have never been
abroad. We are going together this time, and we are going to take the
children, and for a year we propose to see Europe under the most
favorable conditions. I think that abroad will seem a little different
if we go together."

"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Whitechoker. "But London is a cold, godless
place."

"It is if you go alone," said the Idiot.

"And Paris is vile," suggested Mr. Brief.

"To the man who has only himself to think of," said the Idiot.

"And Italy is dirty," said the Bibliomaniac.

"There's water in Venice," observed the Idiot. "Not very clean water, to
be sure, but wet enough to wash the edges of the sidewalks."

"And travel is uncomfortable," observed the Poet.

"Admitted," said the Idiot. "Travel is about the hardest work and the
worst-paid work I know of, but we cannot help ourselves. Now that we are
rich we must accept the penalties imposed by modern society upon the
wealthy. You never knew a rich man to lead a comfortable life, did you,
Mr. Pedagog?"

"There are few of them who seem to know how," admitted the Schoolmaster.
"But--you do."

"No doubt," said the Idiot. "But you see I do not wish to be
ostentatiously different from my kind, so having made a fortune I am
going to live as people of fortune do and be as uncomfortable as I know
how."

"I don't understand about this fortune," said Mr. Brief. "Have you run
up against a rich uncle somewhere, or is this sudden wealth the result
of your inventions, concerning which we have heard so much lately?"

"Neither," replied the Idiot. "The fact is, I made an investment some
years ago in a certain stock, for which I paid twenty-three. I sold it
three weeks ago for one hundred and sixty-three, clearing one hundred
and forty dollars each on a thousand shares."

The Poet gasped.

"One hundred and forty thousand dollars profit!" cried Mr. Whitechoker.

"Yes," said the Idiot, calmly, "that's about the size of it. Terrible,
isn't it? Here I was a happy man; content to stay at home and toil eight
hours a day for a small stipend; living in tolerable comfort, and
nothing to worry over. All of a sudden this thing happens, and like all
other men of wealth I must become a wanderer. I shudder to think of what
might have happened if I'd made a million; I shouldn't have had a home
at all then."

The guests looked at their host with amazement. To most of them he had
reached the supreme moment of his idiocy.

"Ahem!" said the Poet. "I fail to see why."

"Look at the ways of the millionaire and you'll see," observed the
Idiot, suavely. "Given his million he gives up his house and builds
himself a small, first-class hotel in some big city, which for the
greater part of the year is occupied by servants. He next erects a
country palace at Lenox or at Newport. This he calls a cottage, though
it usually looks more like a public library or a hospital or a
club-house. Then he builds himself a camp, with stained-glass windows,
in the Adirondacks, and has to float a small railroad in order to get
himself and his wife's trunks into camp. Shortly after these follows a
bungalow modelled after a French château, somewhere in the South, and
then a yacht warranted to cross the ocean in ten days, and to produce
sea-sickness twelve hours sooner than the regular ocean-steamer, becomes
one of the necessities of life. Result, he never lives anywhere. To
occupy all his residences, camps, and bungalows he has to keep eternally
on the move, and when he thinks he needs a trip to Europe he has his
yacht got ready and sends it over, going himself on a fast steamer. He
meets his yacht at Southampton, and orders the captain to proceed
directly to some Mediterranean port, going himself, meanwhile, to
London. After a month of London he goes to Paris, and thence to the
Mediterranean port, where, after steaming aboard of the yacht for three
or four days, he sends the boat back to New York and returns himself by
the regular liner. Oh, it's a terrible thing to be a millionaire and
have nowhere to lay one's head, with every poorer man envying you, many
hating you, and hands raised against you everywhere."

There was a pause, and the assembled company properly expressed their
appreciation of the millionaire's hard lot by silence.

"The scheme has its advantages," observed Mrs. Idiot.

"Some," said the Idiot. "But think, my dear, of the town house with
thirty-nine servants; the Newport house with thirty-four; the camp with
sixty, including gamekeepers and guides; the bungalow with thirty more,
and the yacht with a captain, a crew, stewards, stewardesses, and a cook
you can't get away from without jumping overboard. Just think how that
would multiply your troubles. You would come to me from time to time and
ask me how I could expect you to discharge seven butlers and four cooks
in one morning, and no doubt you'd request me sometimes to stop in at
the intelligence office on my way home and employ a dozen housemaids for
you."

"But you would have a manager for all this," suggested Mrs. Pedagog.

"That's the point," observed the Idiot. "We'd have to have a manager,
and for my part I shouldn't relish being managed. What chance would Mrs.
Idiot have against a manager ahead of an army of servants of such
magnitude? We have more than we can keep in subjection as we stand now,
with this one small house. If it wasn't for Mary, who keeps an eye on
things, I don't know what we should do."

"Well, I am glad you're rich, pa," said Tommy; "you can increase my
allowance."

"And I can have a pony," lisped Mollie.

"Alas! Poor children!" cried the Idiot. "That is the saddest part of
wealth. Instead of bringing the little ones up ourselves, to be wholly
fashionable it will be necessary to sublet the contract to a committee
of tutors and governesses. The obligations of social life hereafter will
require that we meet our children by appointment only, and that when
they dine they shall eat in solitary grandeur until they become so
polished in manners that their parents may once more formally welcome
them at table. All the good old democratic ways of the domestic republic
are now to be set aside. Tommy, instead of yelling for a buckwheat-cake
at the top of his lungs, upon our return will request a butler in
choicest French to hand him a _pâté de foie gras_; and dear little
Mollie will have to give up attracting the waitress' attention by shying
an olive-pit at her and imperiously summon her by means of an electric
buzzer set to buzzing with her toe."

"Mercy! What a picture of woe!" cried Mr. Pedagog.

"Not altogether true, is it?" suggested the Doctor.

"Have you ever visited Newport?" asked the Idiot.

"No," said the Doctor, "never."

"Well, don't," said the Idiot, "unless you wish to look upon that
picture--a picture of life whence childhood is abolished; where _blasé_
little swells take the place of lively small boys, and diminutive grand
duchesses, clad in regal garb, have supplanted the little daughters who
bring smiles and sunshine into the life of the common people. Ah, my
friends," the Idiot continued, with a shake of his head, "there are sad
sights to be seen in this world, but I know of none sadder than those
rich little scions of the American aristocracy in whose veins the good
red blood of a not very remote ancestry has turned blue through too much
high living and too little real living."

"I should think you'd take that hundred and forty thousand dollars and
throw it into the sea," said Mr. Brief.

"That would be wicked waste," observed the Idiot. "I propose to use it
to win back the good old home-life, and the best way to perpetuate that
is to leave it for a time and travel. When you have travelled and seen
how uncomfortable others are, and discovered how uncomfortable you are
while travelling, nothing can exceed the bliss of getting back to the
first simple principles of the real home."

"As a sensible man, why don't you stay here, then?" queried the Poet.

"Because," said the Idiot, "if I stayed here with that hundred and forty
thousand dollars on my mind I should nurse it, and in a short while I'd
become a millionaire, and such a misfortune as that I shall never
invite. We shall go abroad and spend--"

"Not all of it, I hope?" said Mr. Whitechoker.

"No," replied the Idiot. "But enough of it to mitigate the horrors of
our condition while absent."

And so it was that Castle Idiot was closed, and that for a time at least
"The Idiot at Home" became a thing of the past. Wherever he and his
small family may be, may I not bespeak for him the kindly, even
affectionate, esteem of those who have followed him with me through
these pages? He has his faults; they are many and manifest, for he has
never shown the slightest disposition to conceal them, but, as Mrs.
Pedagog remarked to me the other night, "He has a large heart, and it is
in the right place. If he only wouldn't talk so much!"


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