XII
HE MAKES A SUGGESTION TO THE POET
"Good-morning, Homer, my boy," said the Idiot, genially, as the Poetentered the breakfast-room. "All hail to thee. Thou art the brightparticular bird of plumage I most hoped to see this rare and beauteoussummer morning. No sweet-singing robin-redbreast or soft-honkingcanvasback for yours truly this A.M., when a living, breathing,palpitating son of the Muses lurks near at hand. I fain would make theea proposition, Shakespeare dear!"
"Back pedal there! Avaunt with your flowery speech, oh Idiot!" cried theDoctor. "Else will I call an ambulance."
"No ambulance for mine," chortled the Idiot.
"Nay, Sweet Gas-bags," quoth the Doctor. "But for once I fear me we maybe scorched by this Pelee of words that thou spoutest forth."
"What's the proposition, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Poet. "I'm always open toanything of the kind, as the Subway said when an automobile fell intoit.'"
"I thirst for laurels," said the Idiot, "and I propose that you and Icollaborate on a book of poems for early publication. With your name onthe title-page and my poems in the book I think we can make a go of it."
"What's the lay?" asked the Poet, amused, but wary. "Sonnets, or Frenchforms, or just plain snatches of song?"
"Any old thing as long as it runs smoothly," replied the Idiot. "Onlythe poems must fit the title of the book, which is to be _Now_."
"_Now?_" said the Poet.
"_Now!_" repeated the Idiot. "I find in reading over the verse of theday that the 'Now' poem always finds a ready market. Therefore, theremust be money in it, and where the money goes there the laurels are.You know what Browning Robinson, the Laureate of Wall Street, wrote inhis 'Message to Posterity':
"'Oh, when you come to crown my brow, Bring me no bay nor sorrel; Give me no parsley wreath, but just The legal long green laurel.'"
"I never heard that poem before," laughed the Poet, "though thesentiment in these commercial days is not unfamiliar."
"True," said the Idiot. "Alfred Austin Biggs, of Texas, voiced the sameidea when he said:
"'Crown me not with spinach, Wreathe me not with hay; Place no salad on my head When you bring the bay. Give me not the water-cresses To adorn my flowing tresses, But at e'en Crown my pockets good and strong With the green-- The green that's long.'"
"Do you remember that?" asked the Idiot.
"Only faintly," said the Poet. "I think you read it to me once before,just after you--er--ah--rather just after Alfred Austin Biggs, ofTexas--wrote it."
The Idiot laughed. "I see you're on," he said. "Anyhow, it's goodsentiment, whether I wrote it or Biggs. Fact is, in my judgment, whatthe poet of to-day ought to do is to collect the long green from thepresent and the laurel from posterity. That's a fair division. But whatdo you say to my proposition?"
"Well, it's certainly--er--cheeky enough," said the Poet. "Do Iunderstand it?--you want me to father your poems. To tell the truth,until I hear some of them, I can't promise to be more than an uncle tothem."
"That's all right," said the Idiot. "You ought to be cautious, as amatter of protection to your own name. I've got some of the goods righthere. Here's a little thing called 'Summer-tide!' It shows the whole'Now' principle in a nutshell. Listen to this:
"Now the festive frog is croaking in the mere, And the canvasback is honking in the bay, And the summer-girl is smiling full of cheer On the willieboys that chance along her way.
"Now the skeeter sings his carols to the dawn, And bewails the early closing of the bar That prevents the little nips he seeks each morn On the sea-shore where the fatling boarders are.
"Now the landlord of the pastoral hotel Spends his mornings, nights, and eke his afternoons, Scheming plans to get more milk from out the well, And a hundred novel ways of cooking prunes.
"Now the pumpkin goes a pumpking through the fields, And the merry visaged cows are chewing cud; And the profits that the plumber's business yields Come a-tumbling to the earth with deadly thud.
"And from all of this we learn the lesson sweet, The soft message of Dame Nature, grand and clear, That the winter-time is gone with storm and sleet, And the soft and jolly summer-tide is here.
How's that? Pretty fair?"
"Well, I might consent to be a cousin to a poem of that kind. I've readworse and written some that are quite as bad. But you know, Mr. Idiot,even so great a masterpiece as that won't make a book," said the Poet.
"Of course it won't," retorted the Idiot. "That's only for the summer.Here's another one on winter. Just listen:
"Now the man who deals in mittens and in tabs Is a-smiling broadly--aye, from ear to ear-- As he reaches out his hand and fondly grabs All the shining, golden shekels falling near.
"Now the snow lies on the hill-side and the roof, And the birdling to the sunny southland flies; While the frowning summer landlord stands aloof, And to solemncholy meditation hies.
"Now the tinkling of the sleigh-bells tinge the air, And the coal-man is as happy as can be; While the hulking, sulking, grizzly seeks his lair, And the ice-man's soul is filled with misery.
"Clad in frost are all the distant mountain-peaks, And the furnace is as hungry as a boy; While the plumber, as he gloats upon the leaks, Is the model that the painter takes for 'Joy.'
"And from all of this we learn the lesson sweet-- The glad message of Dame Nature, grand and clear: That the summer-time has gone with all its heat, And the crisp and frosty winter days are here.
You see, Mr. Poet, that out of that one idea alone--that cataloguing ofthe things of the four seasons--you can get four poems that are reallyworth reading," said the Idiot. "We could call that section 'TheSeasons,' and make it the first part of the book. In the second part wecould do the same thing, only in greater detail, for each one of themonths. Just as a sample, take the month of February. We could runsomething like this in on February:
"Now o'er the pavement comes a hush As pattering feet wade deep in slush That every Feb. Doth flow and ebb."
"I see," said the Poet. "It wouldn't take long to fill up a book withstuff like that."
"To make the appeal stronger, let me take the month of July, which isnow on," resumed the Idiot. "You may find it even more convincing:
"Now the fly-- The rhubarb-pie-- The lightning in the sky-- Thermometers so spry-- That leap up high-- The roads all dry, The hoboes nigh, The town a-fry, The mad ki-yi A-snarling by, The crickets cry-- All tell us that it is July.
Eh?"
"I don't believe anybody would believe I wrote it, that's all," saidthe Poet, shaking his head dubiously. "They'd find out, sooner or later,that you did it, just as they discovered that Will Carleton wrote'Paradise Lost,' and Dick Davis was the real author of Shakespeare. Whydon't you publish the thing over your own name?"
"Too modest," said the Idiot. "What do you think of this:
"Now the festive candidate Goes a-sporting through the State, And he kisses babes from Quogue to Kalamazoo; For he really wants to win Without spending any tin, And he thinks he has a chance to kiss it through."
"That's fair, only I don't think you'll find many candidates doing thatsort of thing nowadays," said the Poet. "Most public men I know of wouldrather spend their money than kiss the babies. That style of campaigninghas gone out."
"It has in the cities," said the Idiot. "But back in the country it isstill done, and the candidate who turns his back on the infant might aswell give up the race. I know, because a cousin of mine ran forsupervisor once, and he was licked out of his boots because he tried todo his kissing by proxy--said he'd give the kisses in a bunch to acommittee of young ladies, who could distribute them for him. Result waseverybody was down on him--even the young ladies."
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bsp; "I guess he was a cousin of yours, all right," laughed the Doctor; "thatscheme bears the Idiot brand."
"Here's one on the opening of the opera season," said the Idiot:
"Now the fiddlers tune their fiddles To the lovely taradiddles Of old Wagner, Mozart, Bizet, and the rest. Now the trombone is a-tooting Out its scaley shute-the-chuteing And the oboe is hoboing with a zest.
"Now the dressmakers are working-- Not a single minute shirking-- Making gowns with frills and fal-lals mighty queer, For the Autumn days are flying, And there's really no denying That the season of the opera is near."
Mr. Brief took a hand in the discussion at this moment.
"Then you can have a blanket verse," he said, scribbling with his pencilon a piece of paper in front of him. "Something like this:
"And as Time goes on a-stalking, And the Idiot still is talking In his usual blatant manner, loud and free, With his silly jokes and rhyme, It is--well it's any time From Creation to the jumping-off place that you'll find at the far end of Eterni-tie."
"That settles it," said the Idiot, rising. "I withdraw my proposition.Let's call it off, Mr. Poet."
"What's the matter?" asked Mr. Brief. "Isn't my verse good?"
"Yes," said the Idiot. "Just as good as mine, and that being the case itisn't worth doing. When lawyers can write as good poetry as real poets,it doesn't pay to be a real poet. I'm going in for something else. Iguess I'll apply for a job as a motorman, and make a name for myselfthere."
"Can a motorman make a name for himself?" asked the Doctor.
"Oh yes," said the Idiot. "Easily. By being civil. A civil motormanwould be unique."
"But he wouldn't make a fortune," suggested the Poet.
"Yes he would, too," said the Idiot. "If he could prove he really wascivil, the vaudeville people would pay him a thousand dollars a week andtour the country with him. He'd draw mobs."
With which the Idiot left the dining-room.
"I think his poems would sell," smiled Mrs. Pedagog.
"Yes," said Mr. Pedagog. "Chopped up fine and properly advertised, theymight make a very successful new kind of breakfast food--provided thepaper on which they were written was not too indigestible."