title--Isle of
Piccolo--that's a dandy and I give you my word of honor I'd never even
thought of a title for the opera until that revealed itself like a flash
from the blue; and as for the coon song, 'My Baboon Baby,' there's a
chance there for a Zanzibar act that will simply make Richard Wagner and
Reginald De Koven writhe with jealousy. Can't you imagine the lilt of
it:

"My Bab-boon--ba-habee,
My Bab-boon--ba-habee--
I love you dee-her-lee
Yes dee-hee-hee-er-lee.
My Baboon--ba-ha-bee,
My Baboon--ba-ha-bee,
My baboon--Ba-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-hay-bee-bee.

"And all those pink satin monkeys bumping their cocoanut shells together
in the green moonlight--"

"Well, after the first act, what?" asked the Bibliomaniac.

"The usual intermission," said the Idiot. "You don't have to write that.
The audience generally knows what to do."

"But your second act?" asked the Poet.

"Oh, come off," said the Idiot rising. "We were to do this thing in
collaboration. So far I've done the whole blooming business. I'll leave
the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've got to do
a little collabbing on your own account. What did you think you were to
do--collect the royalties?"

"I'm told," said the Lawyer, "that that is sometimes the hardest thing
to do in a comic opera."

"Well, I'll be self-sacrificing," said the Idiot, "and bear my full
share of it."

"It seems to me," said the Bibliomaniac, "that that opera produced in
the right place might stand a chance of a run."

"Thank you," said the Idiot. "After all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of some
penetration. How long a run?"

"One consecutive night," said the Bibliomaniac.

"Ah--and where?" demanded the Idiot with a smile.

"At Bloomingdale," answered the Bibliomaniac severely.

"That's a very good idea," said the Idiot. "When you go back there, Mr.
Bib, I wish you'd suggest it to the Superintendent."

WAMSLEY'S AUTOMATIC PASTOR

BY FRANK CRANE

"Yes, sir," said the short, chunky man, as he leaned back against the
gorgeous upholstery of his seat in the smoking compartment of the
sleeping-car; "yes, sir, I knew you was a preacher the minute I laid
eyes on you. You don't wear your collar buttoned behind, nor a black
thingumbob over your shirt front, nor Presbyterian whiskers, nor a
little gold cross on a black string watch chain; them's the usual marks,
I know, and you hain't got any