“Under a spreading chestnut tree,
The ancient jokesmith lies,”
hummed Longfellow.
“That is a prehistoric relic which leaked from the Ark when we grounded on Mt. Ararat,” volunteered Noah. “I sprung that ‘raising Cain’ joke on Mrs. Noah, but you know a woman has no sense of humor and she said she had her hands full without working the adoption degree.”
“‘O, that mine adversary had written a book!’” reiterated Methuselah.
“He has; your wish is fulfilled.”
It was a newcomer who spoke. All eyes were turned upon him as Methuselah asked:
“Who are you?”
“A. Hasbeen, M.D., late secretary of the Os-slurs Chloroforming Institute of Baltimore. To-day I became a back number—60—which entitled me to a painless passing, the anæsthetic being administered by Dr. Senile. But there was no need of the old men getting angry at what Dr. Osler said about them. He intended it only for advertising purposes. Having got himself talked into notoriety, his publishers have announced that a book by the doctor is in press.”
“Then am I revenged indeed! Æsthetic as he is, Dr. Osler will wish that he had taken an anæsthetic before the book reviewers get through with him. Oh, for the fatally facile pen of the bright and bitter Corelli!”