“That’s fair, only I don’t think you’ll find many candidates doing that sort of thing nowadays,” said the Poet. “Most public men I know of would rather spend their money than kiss the babies. That style of campaigning has gone out.”
“It has in the cities,” said the Idiot. “But back in the country it is still done, and the candidate who turns his back on the infant might as well give up the race. I know, because a cousin of mine ran for supervisor once, and he was licked out of his boots because he tried to do his kissing by proxy—said he’d give the kisses in a bunch to a committee of young ladies, who could distribute them for him. Result was everybody was down on him—even the young ladies.”
“I guess he was a cousin of yours, all right,” laughed the Doctor; “that scheme bears the Idiot brand.”
“Here’s one on the opening of the opera season,” said the Idiot:
“Now the fiddlers tune their fiddles
To the lovely taradiddles
Of old Wagner, Mozart, Bizet, and the rest.
Now the trombone is a-tooting
Out its scaley shute-the-chuteing
And the oboe is hoboing with a zest.
“Now the dressmakers are working—
Not a single minute shirking—
Making gowns with frills and fal-lals mighty queer,
For the Autumn days are flying,
And there’s really no denying
That the season of the opera is near.”
Mr. Brief took a hand in the discussion at this moment.
“Then you can have a blanket verse,” he said, scribbling with his pencil on a piece of paper in front of him. “Something like this:
“And as Time goes on a-stalking,
And the Idiot still is talking
In his usual blatant manner, loud and free,
With his silly jokes and rhyme,
It is—well it’s any time
From Creation to the jumping-off place that you’ll find at the far end of Eterni-tie.”
“That settles it,” said the Idiot, rising. “I withdraw my proposition. Let’s call it off, Mr. Poet.”