ad as all that why didn't it put you to sleep?"

"It did," said the Idiot. "But the music kept waking us up again. There
was no escape from it except that of actual physical flight."

"Well--about this collaboration of ours," suggested the Poet. "What do
you think we should do first?"

"Write an opening chorus, of course," said the Idiot. "What did you
suppose? A finale? Something like this:

"If you want to know who we are,
Just ask the Evening Star,
As he smiles on high
In the deep blue sky,
With his tralala-la-la-la.
We are maidens sweet
With tripping feet,
And the Googoo eyes
Of the Skippity-hi's,
And the smile of the fair Gazoo;
And you'll find our names
'Mongst the wondrous dames
Of the Whos Who-hoo-hoo-hoo.

"Get that sung with spirit by sixty-five ladies with blonde wigs and
gold slippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a troop of Russian
Cavalry, and you've got your venture launched."

"Where can you find people like that?" asked the Bibliomaniac.

"New York's full of 'em," replied the Idiot.

"I don't mean the people to act that sort of thing--but where would you
lay your scene?" explained the Bibliomaniac.

"Oh, any old place in the Pacific Ocean," said the Idiot. "Make your own
geography--everybody else does. There's a million islands out there of
one kind or another, and as defenseless as a two weeks' old infant. If
you want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make one
up for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of that
sort. After you've got your chorus going, introduce your villain, who
should be a man with a deep bass voice and a piratical past. He's the
chap who rules the roost and is going to marry the heroine to-morrow.
That will make a bully song:

"I'm a pirate bold
With a heart so cold
That it turns the biggest joys to solemn sorrow;
And the hero-ine,
With her eyes so fine,
I am going to-marry--to-morrow.

CHORUS:

"He is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow
The maid with a heart full of sorrow;
For her we are sorry
For she weds to-morry--
She is go-ing to-marry--to-morrow.

"Gee!" added the Idiot enthusiastically. "Can't you almost hear that
already?"

"I am sorry to say," said Mr. Brief, "that I can. You ought to call your
heroine Drivelina."

"Splendid," cried the Idiot. "D