His jokes were good, but too classic for
the tastes of the editors. Editors are peculiar. They have no respect
for age--particularly in the matter of jests. Some of my friend's
jokes had seemed good enough for Plutarch to print when he had a
publisher at his mercy, but they didn't seem to suit the high and mighty
products of this age who sit in judgment on such things in the
comic-paper offices. So he gave up jokes."
[Illustration: WOOING THE MUSE]
"Does he still know you?" asked the landlady.
"Yes, madame," observed the Idiot.
"Then he hasn't given up all jokes," she retorted, with fine scorn.
"Tee-he-hee!" laughed the School-master. "Pretty good, Mrs.
Smithers--pretty good."
"Yes," said the Idiot. "That is good, and, by Jove! it differs from your
butter, Mrs. Smithers, because it's entirely fresh. It's good enough to
print, and I don't think the butter is."
"What did your friend do next?" asked Mr. Whitechoker.
"He was employed by a funeral director in Philadelphia to write obituary
verses for memorial cards."
"And was he successful?"
"For a time; but he lost his position because of an error made by a
careless compositor in a marble-yard. He had written,
"'Here lies the hero of a hundred fights--
Approximated he a perfect man;
He fought for country and his country's rights,
And in the hottest battles led the van.'"
"Fine in sentiment and in execution!" observed Mr. Whitechoker.
"Truly so," returned the Idiot.
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