"I'm glad I'm not as men are—
Always worrying about something, and often about nothing;
About what was and what wasn't;
Fretting about what may be and what might have been;
Wondering whether when they are called upon to do their duty
They'll be able to do it,
And generally deciding they won't,
To their own discomfort.
And if so be they're women,
Cogitating from morn till night,
From night till morn,
Wherewithal shall they be clothed,
And if their hats are on straight!
Yea!
I am glad I am not like one of these,
But am myself—
A ton of coal—jetty in my blackness and luminous in my bituminosity.
Lying here in the cellar content and not bothering a bit.
Not needing income or clothes, and wearing no hat, and with no complexion to bother about.
Happy and serene about my duty,
Certain that I shall succeed when the time for action comes;
Knowing that I shall burn,
And in the burning glow like the polar star.
Cackling and crackling,
Hissing and smoking,
Full of heat,
A satisfaction to mankind,
And never worth less than $5.65, delivered!
Ah, me! What bliss to be a ton of coal!
I am content."
The Poet nodded his pleasure at the effort. "It is charmingly put," he said. "I must confess, my dear Idiot, that the idea of contentment is the last one that I should ever have extracted from contemplation of a binful of anthracite, and yet when I consider how you put it I wonder it has not occurred to every one. You have the manner of the Whitman parodist down fine, too."
"Thank you," said the Idiot. "It is entirely natural to me. I think, too, that using the Whitman lack of form carries with it the notion of the coal sliding down the chute, don't you? Coal runs into the cellar in such an irresponsible, formless way, eh?"
"Precisely," smiled the Poet. "You have the right notion about that. The form of a poem should really be adapted to the substance. It should be descriptive, always. Tennyson's 'Charge of the Light Brigade' has in its rhythm nothing more or less than the clatter of the horses' hoofs as they and their riders dashed through the valley of death at Balaklava. And how vividly Southey's brook comes before the mind in its mad rush downward as one reads that wonderfully lyrical poem. Why don't you write a book of household poetry? You seem to me to be eminently well qualified to undertake it."
"I intend to," said the Idiot. "In fact, I've begun it already. Written five or six. Like to see 'em?"
"Indeed I should," said the Poet. "Anything you do interests me."
The Idiot went to his desk and took from it a few pages of manuscript.
"Here is a thing on pokers I did the other night. I called it 'The Song of the Poker Bold.'" And then he read these lines:
"Warder of the grate am I,
Ever standing near;
Poking, poking all day long,
Knowing naught of fear.
"Keeping coals up to their work,
Setting them aglow,
Minding not the scorching heat,
Rather like it so.
"Knocking ashes right and left,
Flirting with the tiles;
Bossing tongs and seeing that
The brazen kettle biles.
"And the little girls and boys
As they watch me pause,
Wishing that I'd talk and tell
'Bout old Santa Claus!
"Cracking jokes with crickets on
The merry hearth, elate;
Happy lot indeed is mine—
Warder of the grate!"
"Splendid!" cried the Poet, clapping his hands with enthusiasm. "Splendid! A good stiff pokeresque lyric, and your characterization of the poker as the 'Warder of the Grate' gives it a flavor of romance. You could almost imagine the implement going out into a mediæval world in search of knightly adventure—a sort of hearth-stone Quixote. Have you tackled the clothes-pin yet?"