“The next morning, however, on opening the machine I found that the June-bug had not only not been shaken out of the window, but had actually spent the night inside of the cover, butting his head against the keys, having no wall to butt with it, and most singular of all was the fact that, consciously or unconsciously, the insect had butted out a verse which read:
“‘I’m glad I haven’t any brains,
For there can be no doubt
I’d have to give up butting
If I had, or butt them out.’”
“Mercy! Really?” cried Angelica.
“Well I can’t prove it,” said Mr. Munchausen, “by producing the June-bug, but I can show you the hotel, I can tell you the number of the room; I can show you the type-writing machine, and I have recited the verse. If you’re not satisfied with that I’ll have to stand your suspicions.”
“What became of the June-bug?” demanded Diavolo.
“He flew off as soon as I lifted the top of the machine,” said Mr. Munchausen. “He had all the modesty of a true poet and did not wish to be around while his poem was being read.”
“It’s queer how you can’t get rid of June-bugs, isn’t it, Uncle Munch,” suggested Angelica.