The Inventions of the Idiot

"Then," said the Idiot, "you'd have bad luck and get no waffles." "Tutt!" said Mr. Pedagog. And that was the sole criticism any of the boarders had to make, although there is reason to believe that the scheme had objectionable features to the majority of them, for as yet Progressive Waffles has not been played at Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog's. IX A Clearing-house for Poets "How is your Muse these days, Mr. Idiot?" asked the Bibliomaniac one Sunday morning while the mush was being served. "Flourishing," said the Idiot. "Just flourishing--and no more." "I should think you'd be pleased if she is flourishing," said the Doctor. "I'd rather she'd stop flourishing and do a little writing," said the Idiot. "She's a queer Muse, that one of mine. She has all the airs and graces of an ordinary type-writer with an unconquerable aversion to work." "You look upon your Muse as you would upon your type-writer, eh?" said Mr. Pedagog. "Yes," said the Idiot. "That's all my Muse is, and she isn't even a capable type-writer. The general run of type-writers make sense of what you write, but my Muse won't. You may not believe it, but out of ten inspirations I had last week not one of them is fit for publication anywhere but in a magazine or a puzzle column. I don't know what is the matter with her, but when I sit down to dictate a comic sonnet she turns it into a serious jingle, and vice versa. We can't seem to get our moods to fit. When I want to be serious she's flippant, and when I become flippant she's serious."