"I don't like it," said Mr. Whitechoker. "It is immoral and vindictive.
You should accept the hardships of life, no matter how unjust. The
conclusion of your poem horrifies me, sir. I--"

[Illustration: CURING INSOMNIA]

"Have you tried your hand at dialect poetry?" asked the Doctor.

"Yes; once," said the Idiot. "I sent it to the _Great Western Weekly_.
Oh yes. Here it is. Sent back with thanks. It's an octette written in
cigar-box dialect."

"In wh-a-at?" asked the Poet.

"Cigar-box dialect. Here it is:

"'O Manuel garcia alonzo,
Colorado especial H. Clay,
Invincible flora alphonzo,
Cigarette panatella el rey,
Victoria Reina selectas--
O twofer madura grandé--
O conchas oscuro perfectas,
You drive all my sorrows away.'"

"Ingenious, but vicious," said the School-master, who does not smoke.

"Again thanks. How is this for a sonnet?" said the Idiot:

"'When to the sessions of sweet silent thought