nagement you'd get enough activity in one season to last
you through all eternity."

"You can count on me," said Barnum, rising. "Let me know when you've got
your plan laid out. I'd stay and make a contract with you now, but Adam
has promised to give me points on the management of wild animals without
cages, so I can't wait. By-by."

"Humph!" said Shakespeare, as the eminent showman passed out. "That's a
gay proposition. When monkeys move in polite society William Shakespeare
will make a side-show of himself for a circus."

"They do now," said Thackeray, quietly.

Which merely proved that Shakespeare did not mean what he said; for in
spite of Thackeray's insinuation as to the monkeys and polite society, he
has not yet accepted the Barnum proposition, though there can be no doubt
of its value from the point of view of a circus manager.

CHAPTER IX: AS TO COOKERY AND SCULPTURE

Robert Burns and Homer were seated at a small table in the dining-room of
the house-boat, discussing everything in general and the shade of a very
excellent luncheon in particular.

"We are in great luck to-day," said Burns, as he cut a ruddy duck in
twain. "This bird is done just right."

"I agree with you," returned Homer, drawing his chair a trifle closer to
the table. "Compared to the one we had here last Thursday, this is a
feast for the gods. I wonder who it was that cooked this fowl
originally?"

"I give it up; but I suspect it was done by some man who knew his
business," said Burns, with a smack of his lips. "It's a pity, I think,
my dear Homer, that there is no means by which a cook may become
immortal. Cooking is as much of an art as is the writing of poetry, and
just as there are immortal poets so there should be immortal cooks. See
what an advantage the poet has--he writes something, it goes out and
reaches the inmost soul of the man who reads it, and it is signed. His
work is known because he puts his name to it; but this poor devil of a
cook--where is he? He has done his work as well as the poet ever did
his, it has reached the inmost soul of the mortal who originally ate it,
but he cannot get the glory of it because he cannot put his name to it.
If the cook could sign his work it would be different."

"You have hit upon a great truth," said Homer, nodding, as he sometimes
was wont to do. "And yet I fear that, ingenious as we are, we cannot
devise a plan to remedy the matter. I do not know about you,