be the most likely explanation of this deplorable situation, as you
appear to think it. For my part, I'm glad if what you say is true. Of
all rotten things in the world the practical jokes of April-fool's-day
bear away the palm. There was a time, ten years ago, when I hardly dared
eat anything on the first of April. I was afraid to find my coffee made
of ink, my muffin stuffed with cotton, cod-liver oil in my
salad-dressing, and mayonnaise in my cream-puffs. Such tricks are the
tricks of barbarians, and I shall rejoice when April 1st as a day of
special privilege for idiots and savages has been removed from the
calendar."
"I am afraid," said Mr. Whitechoker, "that I, too, must join the ranks
of those who rejoice if the old-time customs of the day are now honored
more in the breach than in the observance. Ever since that unhappy
Sunday morning some years ago when somebody substituted a breakfast
bill-of-fare for the card containing the notes for my sermon, I have
mistrusted the humor of the April-fool joke. Instead of my text, as I
glanced at what I supposed was my note-card, my eyes fell upon the
statement that fruit taken from the table would be charged for; instead
of my firstly, secondly, thirdly, and fourthly, my eyes were confronted
by Fish, Eggs, Hot Bread, and To Order. And, finally, in place of the
key-line of my peroration, what should obtrude itself upon my vision but
that coarse and vulgar legend: Corkage, one dollar. I never found out
who did it, and, as a Christian man, I hope I never shall, for I should
much deprecate the spirit of animosity with which I should inevitably
regard the person who had so offended."
"I'll bet you preached a bully good sermon, allee samee," said the
Idiot.
"Well," smiled Mr. Whitechoker, "the congregation did seem to think that
it held more fire than usual; but I can assure you, my young friend, it
was more the fire of external wrath than of an inward spiritual grace."
"Well," said the Bibliomaniac, "we ought to be thankful the old tricks
are going out. As Mr. Brief suggests, we are beginning to be
civilized--"
"I don't think it's civilization," said the Idiot. "I think the kids are
just discouraged, that's all. They're clever, these youngsters, but when
it comes to putting up games, they're not in it with their far more foxy
fathers. What's the use of playing April-fool jokes on your daddy, when
your daddy is playing April-fool jokes on the public all the year round?
That's the way they reason. No son of George W. Midas, the financier, is
going to get any satisfaction out of handing his father a loaded cigar,
when he knows that the old man is handling that sort of thing every day
in his business as a promoter of the United States Hot Air Company. What
fun is there in giving your sister a caramel filled with tabasco-sauce
when you can watch your father selling eleven dollars' worth of
Amalgamated Licorice stock to the dear public for forty-seven fifty?
The gum-drop filled with cotton loses its charm when you contrast it
with Consolidated Radium containing one part of radium and ninety-nine
parts of water. Who cares to hide a clay brick under a hat for somebody
to kick, when there are concerns in palatial offices all over town
selling gold bricks to a public that doesn't seem to have any kick left
in it? I tell you it has discouraged the kid to see to what scientific
heights the April-fool industry has been developed, and as a result he
has abandoned the field. He knows he can't compete."
"That's all right as an explanation of the youngster whose parent is
engaged in that sort of business," said the Doctor. "But there are
others."
"True," said the Idiot. "The others stay out of it out of sheer pity.
When they are tempted to sew up the legs of their daddy's trousers in
order to fitly celebrate the day, or to fill his collar-box with collars
five sizes too small for him, they say, 'No. Let us refrain. The
governor has had trouble enough with his International Yukon
Anticipated Brass shares this year. He's had all the fooling he can
stand. We will give the old gentleman a rest!' Fact is, come to look at
it, the decadence of April 1st as a day of foolery for the young is no
mystery, after all. The youngsters are not more civilized than we used
to be, but they have had the intelligence to perceive the exact truth of
the situation."
"Which is?" asked Mr. Brief.
"That the ancient art of practical joking has become a business.
April-fool's-day has been incorporated by the leading financiers of the
age, and is doing a profitable trade all over the world all the year
round. Private enterprise is simply unable to compete."
"I am rather surprised, nevertheless," said Mr. Brief, "that you
yourself have abandoned the field. You are just the sort of person who
would keep on in that kind of thing, despite the discouragements."
"Oh, I haven't abandoned the field," said the Idiot. "I did play an
April-fool joke last Friday."
"What was that?" asked Mr. Whitechoker, interested.
"I told Mrs. Pedagog that I would pay my bill to-morrow," replied the
Idiot, as he rose from the table and left the room.
VIII
SPRING AND ITS POETRY
"Well, Mr. Idiot," said Mrs. Pedagog, genially, as the Idiot entered the
breakfast-room, "what can I do for you this fine spring morning? Will
you have tea or coffee?"
"I think I'd like a cup of boiled iron, with two lumps of quinine and a
spoonful of condensed nerve-milk in it," replied the Idiot, wearily.
"Somehow or other I have managed to mislay my spine this morning.
Ethereal mildness has taken the place of my backbone."
"Those tired feelings, eh?" said Mr. Brief.
"Yeppy," replied the Idiot. "Regular thing with me. Every year along
about the middle of April I have to fasten a poker on my back with
straps, in order to stand up straight; and as for my knees--well, I
never know where they are in the merry, merry spring-time. I'm quite
sure that if I didn't wear brass caps on them my legs would bend
backward. I wonder if this neighborhood is malarious."
"Not in the slightest degree," observed the Doctor. "This is the
healthiest neighborhood in town. The trouble with you is that you have a
swampy mind, and it is the miasmatic oozings of your intellect that
reduce you to the condition of physical flabbiness of which you
complain. You might swallow the United States Steel Trust, and it
wouldn't help you a bit, and ten thousand bottles of nerve-milk, or any
other tonic known to science, would be powerless to reach the seat of
your disorder. What you need to stiffen you up is a pair of those
armored trousers the Crusaders used to wear in the days of chivalry, to
bolster up your legs, and a strait-jacket to keep your back up."
"Thank you, kindly," said the Idiot. "If you'll give me a prescription,
which I can have made up at your tailor's, I'll have it filled, unless
you'll add to my ever-increasing obligation to you by lending me your
own strait-jacket. I promise to keep it straight and to return it the
moment you feel one of your fits coming on."
The Doctor's response was merely a scornful gesture, and the Idiot went
on:
"It's always seemed a very queer thing to me that this season of the
year should be so popular with everybody," he said. "To me it's the
mushiest of times. Mushy bones; mushy poetry; mush for breakfast, fried,
stewed, and boiled. The roads are mushy; lovers thaw out and get mushier
than ever.
"In the spring the blasts of winter all are stilled in
solemn hush.
In the spring the young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts
of mush.
In the spring--"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself to trifle with so beautiful a
poem," interrupted the Bibliomaniac, indignantly.
"Who's trifling with a beautiful poem?" demanded the Idiot.
"You are--'Locksley Hall'--and you know it," retorted the Bibliomaniac.
"Locksley nothing," said the Idiot. "What I was reciting is not from
'Locksley Hall' at all. It's a little thing of my own that I wrote six
years ago called 'Spring Unsprung.' It may not contain much delicate
sentiment, but it's got more solid information in it of a valuable kind
than you'll find in ten 'Locksley Halls' or a dozen Etiquette Columns in
the _Lady's Away From Home Magazine_. It has saved a lot of people from
pneumonia and other disorders of early spring, I am quite certain, and
the only person I ever heard criticise it unfavorably was a doctor I
know who said it spoiled his business."
"I should admire to hear it," said the Poet. "Can't you let us have it?"
"Certainly," replied the Idiot. "It goes on like this:
"In the spring I'll take you driving, take you driving, Maudy dear,
But I beg of you be careful at this season of the year.
It is true the birds are singing, singing sweetly all their notes,
But you'll later find them wearing canton-flannel 'round their
throats.
It is true the lark doth warble, 'Spring is here,' with bird-like
fire,
'All is warmth and all is genial,' but I fear the lark's a liar.
All is warmth for fifteen minutes, that is true; but wait awhile,
And you'll find that April's weather has not ever changed its
style;
And beware of April's weather, it is pleasant for a spell,
But, like little Johnny's future, you can't always sometimes tell.
Often modest little violets, peeping up from out their beds
In the balmy morn by night-time have bad colds within their heads;
And the buttercup and daisy twinkling gayly on the lawn,
Sing by night a different story from their carollings at dawn;
And the blossoms of the morning, hailing spring with joyous frenzy,
When the twilight falls upon them often droop with influenzy.
So, dear Maudy, when we're driving, put your linen duster on,
And your lovely Easter bonnet, if you wish to, you may don;
But be careful to have with you sundry garments warm and thick:
Woollen gloves, a muff, and ear-tabs, from the ice-box get the
pick;
There's no telling what may happen ere we've driven twenty miles,
April flirts with chill December, and is full of other wiles.
Bring your parasol, O Maudy--it is good for _tete-a-tetes_;
At the same time you would better also bring your hockey skates.
There's no telling from the noon-tide, with the sun a-shining
bright,
Just what kind of winter weather we'll be up against by night."
"Referring to the advice," said Mr. Brief, "that's good. I don't think
much of the poetry."
"There was a lot more of it," said the Idiot, "but it escapes me at the
moment. Four lines I do remember, however:
"Pin no faith to weather prophets--all their prophecies are fakes,
Roulette-wheels are plain and simple to the notions April takes.
Keep your children in the nursery--never mind it if they pout--
And, above all, do not let your furnace take an evening out."
"Well," said the Poet, "if you're going to the poets for advice, I
presume your rhymes are all right. But I don't think it is the mission
of the poet to teach people common-sense."
"That's the trouble with the whole tribe of poets," said the Idiot.
"They think they are licensed to do and say all sorts of things that
other people can't do and say. In a way I agree with you that a poem
shouldn't necessarily be a treatise on etiquette or a sequence of health
hints, but it should avoid misleading its readers. Take that fellow who
wrote
"'Sweet primrose time! When thou art here
I go by grassy ledges
Of long lane-side, and pasture mead,
And moss-entangled hedges.'
That's very lovely, and, as far as it goes, it is all right. There's no
harm in doing what the poet so delicately suggests, but I think there
should have been other stanzas for the protection of the reader like
this:
"But have a care, oh, readers fair,
To take your mackintoshes,
And on your feet be sure to wear
A pair of stanch galoshes.
"Nor should you fail when seeking out
The primrose, golden yeller,
To have at hand somewhere about
A competent umbrella.
Thousands of people are inspired by lines like the original to go
gallivanting all over the country in primrose time, to return at dewy
eve with all the incipient symptoms of pneumonia. Then there's the case
of Wordsworth. He was one of the loveliest of the Nature poets, but he's
eternally advising people to go out in the early spring and lie on the
grass somewhere, listening to cuckoos doing their cooking, watching the
daffodils at their daily dill, and hearing the crocus cuss; and some
sentimental reader out in New Jersey thinks that if Wordsworth could do
that sort of thing, and live to be eighty years old, there's no reason
why he shouldn't do the same thing. What's the result? He lies on the
grass for two hours and suffers from rheumatism for the next ten years."
"Tut!" said the Poet. "I am surprised at you. You can't blame Wordsworth
because some New Jerseyman makes a jackass of himself."
"In a way all writers should be responsible for the effect of what they
write on their readers," said the Idiot. "When a poet of Wordsworth's
eminence, directly or indirectly, advises people to go out and lie on
the grass in early spring, he owes it to his public to caution them that
in some localities it is not a good thing to do. A rhymed foot-note--
"This habit, by-the-way, is good
In climes south of the Mersey;
But, I would have it understood,
It's risky in New Jersey--
would fulfil all the requirements of the special individual to whom I
have referred, and would have shown that the poet himself was ever
mindful of the welfare of his readers."
The Poet was apparently unconvinced, so the Idiot continued:
"Mind you, old man, I think all this poetry is beautiful," he said; "but
you poets are too prone to confine your attention to the pleasant
aspects of the season. Here, for instance, is a poet who asks
'What are the dearest treasures of spring?'
and then goes on to name the cheapest as an answer to his question. The
primrose, the daffodil, the rosy haze that veils the forest bare, the
sparkle of the myriad-dimpled sea, a kissing-match between the sunbeams
and the rain-drops, reluctant hopes, the twitter of swallows on the
wing, and all that sort of thing. You'd think spring was an iridescent
dream of ecstatic things; but of the tired feeling that comes over you,
the spine of jelly, the wabbling knee, the chills and fever that come
from sniffing 'the scented breath of dewy April's eve,' the doctor's
bills, and such like things are never mentioned. It isn't fair. It's all
right to tell about the other things, but don't forget the drawbacks. If
I were writing that poem I'd have at least two stanzas like this:
"And other dearest treasures of spring
Are daily draughts of withering, blithering squills,
To cure my aching bones of darksome chills;
And at the door my loved physician's ring;
"The tender sneezes of the early day;
The sudden drop of Mr. Mercury;
The veering winds from S. to N. by E.--
And hunting flats to move to in the May.
You see, that makes not only a more comprehensive picture, but does not
mislead anybody into the belief the spring is all velvet, which it isn't
by any means."
"Oh, bosh!" cried the Poet, very much nettled, as he rose from the
table. "I suppose if you had your way you'd have all poetry submitted
first to a censor, the way they do with plays in London."
"No, I wouldn't have a censor; he'd only increase taxes unnecessarily,"
said the Idiot, folding up his napkin, and also rising to leave. "I'd
just let the Board of Health pass on them; it isn't a question of morals
so much as of sanitation."
IX
ON FLAT-HUNTING
"Aha!" cried the Poet, briskly rubbing his hands together, and drawing a
deep breath of satisfaction, "these be great days for people who are
fond of the chase, who love the open, and who would commune with Nature
in her most lovely mood. Just look out of that window, Mr. Idiot, and
drink in the joyous sunshine. Egad! sir, even the asphalted pavement and
the brick-and-mortar facade of the houses opposite, bathed in that
golden light, seem glorified."
"Thanks," said the Idiot, wearily, "but I guess I won't. I'm afraid that
while I was drinking in those glorified flats opposite and digesting the
golden-mellow asphalt, you would fasten that poetic grip of yours upon
my share of the blossoming buckwheats. Furthermore, I've been enjoying
the chase for two weeks now, and, to tell you the honest truth, I am
long on it. There is such a thing as chasing too much, so if you don't
mind I'll sublet my part of the contract for gazing out of the window at
gilt-edged Nature as she appears in the city to you. Mary, move Mr.
Poet's chair over to the window so that he may drink in the sunshine
comfortably, and pass his share of the sausages to me."
"What have you been chasing, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Doctor. "Birds or the
fast-flitting dollar?"
"Flats," said the Idiot.
"I didn't know you Wall Street people needed to hunt flats," said the
Bibliomaniac. "I thought they just walked into your offices and
presented themselves for skinning."
"I don't mean the flats we live on," explained the Idiot. "It's the
flats we live in that I have been after."
The landlady looked up inquiringly. Mr. Idiot's announcement sounded
ominous.
"To my mind, flat-hunting," the Idiot continued, "is one of the most
interesting branches of sport. It involves quite as much uncertainty as
the pursuit of the whirring partridge; your game is quite as difficult
to lure as the speckled trout darting hither and yon in the grassy pool;
it involves no shedding of innocent blood, as in the case of a ride
across-country with a pack in full pursuit of the fox; and strikes me
as possessing greater dignity than running forty miles through the
cabbage-patches of Long Island in search of a bag of ainse seed.
When the sporting instinct arises in my soul and reaches that full-tide
where nothing short of action will hold it in control, I never think of
starting for Maine to shoot the festive moose, nor do I squander my
limited resources on a foggy hunt for the elusive canvasback in the
Maryland marshes. I just go to the nearest cab-stand, strike a bargain
with Mr. Jehu for an afternoon's use of his hansom, and go around the
town hunting flats. It requires very little previous preparation; it
involves no prolonged absences from home; you do not need rubber boots
unless you propose to investigate the cellars or intend to go far
afield into the suburban boroughs of this great city; and is in all
ways pleasant, interesting, and, I may say, educational."
"Educational, eh?" laughed the Bibliomaniac. "Some people have queer
ideas of what is educational. I must say I fail to see anything
particularly instructive in flat-hunting."
"That's because you never approached it in a proper spirit," said the
Idiot. "Anybody who is at all interested in sociology, however, cannot
help but find instruction in a contemplation of how people are housed.
You can't get any idea of how the other halves live by reading the
society news in the Sunday newspapers or peeping in at the second story
of the tenement-houses as you go down-town on the elevated railroads.
You've got to go out and investigate for yourself, and that's where
flat-hunting comes in as an educational diversion. Of course, all men
are not interested in the same line of investigation. You, as a
bibliomaniac, prefer to go hunting rare first editions; Dr. Pellet,
armed to the teeth with capsules, lies in wait for a pot-shot at some
new kind of human ailment, and rejoices as loudly over the discovery of
a new disease as you do over finding a copy of the rare first edition of
the _Telephone Book for 1899_; another man goes to Africa to investigate
the condition of our gorillan cousin of the jungle; Lieutenant Peary
goes and hides behind a snow-ball up North, so that his fellows of the
Arctic Exploration Society may have something to look for every other
summer; and I--I go hunting for flats. I don't sneer at you and the
others for liking the things you do. You shouldn't sneer at me for
liking the things I do. It is, after all, the diversity of our tastes
that makes our human race interesting."
"But the rest of us generally bag something," said the Lawyer. "What the
dickens do you get beyond sheer physical weariness for your pains?"
"The best of all the prizes of the hunt," said the Idiot; "the spirit
of content with my lot as a boarder. I've been through twenty-eight
flats in the last three weeks, and I know whereof I speak. I have seen
the gorgeous apartments of the Redmere, where you can get a Louis Quinze
drawing-room, a Renaissance library, a superb Grecian dining-room, and a
cold-storage box to keep your high-balls in for four thousand dollars
per annum."
"Weren't there any bedrooms?" asked Mr. Whitechoker.
"Oh yes," said the Idiot. "Three, automatically ventilated from holes in
the ceiling leading to an air-shaft, size six by nine, and brilliantly
lighted by electricity. There was also a small pigeon-hole in a
corrugated iron shack on the roof for the cook; a laundry next to the
coal-bin in the cellar; and a kitchen about four feet square connecting
with the library."
"Mercy!" cried Mrs. Pedagog. "Do they expect children to live in such a
place as that?"
"No," said the Idiot. "You have to give bonds as security against
children of any kind at the Redmere. If you happen to have any, you are
required by the terms of your lease to send them to boarding-school; and
if you haven't any, the lease requires that you shall promise to have
none during your tenancy. The owners of such properties have a lot of
heart about them, and they take good care to protect the children
against the apartments they put up."
"And what kind of people, pray, live in such places as that?" demanded
the Bibliomaniac.
"Very nice people," said the Idiot. "People, for the most part, who
spend their winters at Palm Beach, their springs in London, their
summers at Newport or on the Continent, and their autumns in the
Berkshires."
"I don't see why they need a home at all if that's the way they do,"
said Mrs. Pedagog.
"It's very simple," said the Idiot. "You've got to have an address to
get your name in the _Social Register_."
"Four thousand dollars is pretty steep for an address," commented the
Bibliomaniac.
"It would be for me," said the Idiot. "But it is cheap for them.
Moreover, in the case of the Redmere it's the swellest address in town.
Three of the most important divorces of the last social season took
place at the Redmere. Social position comes high, Mr. Bib, but there are
people who must have it. It is to them what baked beans are to the
Bostonian's Sunday breakfast--a _sine qua non_."
"May I ask whatever induced you to look for a four-thousand-dollar
apartment?" asked Mr. Pedagog. "You have frequently stated that your
income barely equalled twenty-four hundred dollars a year."