The Genial Idiot

have been thirty-nine new comic operas produced this year and four of 'em were worth seeing. It is very evident th

rty-nine, eh? I knew there was a raft of them,

to do is to forget all your ideas and remember all the old jokes you ever heard, slap 'em together around a lot of dances, write

ed the Poet. "It requires just as much thought

it worth my while, and, what's more, if I ever got into the swing of the business I'll

aughed the Poet, "but, alas! in making m

, Battery Place, and Boston Common, the way you do, has a right to consider himself an adept at bunco. I tell you what I'll do with you: I'll swap off my confi

n any other kind of writing that I know. I don't know but that I would l

reason I think I can turn the trick. As I said before, you do

ome kind of a story,

s, slap in your jokes, fasten 'em together, and the thing is done. Firs

third?" que

erfluous; but, if you must have it, make up some kind of a v

omaniac. "That would m

ra that lacks gayety is one of the most depressing functions known to modern science. Some of 'em are enough to make an undertaker weep with jealous rage. I went to one of 'em last week called 'The Skylark,' with an old chum of mine who is a surgeon. You can i

sneered the Bibliomaniac. "If it was as bad

t waking us up again. There was no escape fr

f ours," suggested the Poet. "Wha

," said the Idiot. "What did you su

nt to know

the Eve

smiles

deep-bl

tralala

maide

rippin

e goog

skippit

ile of the

ll find

the wond

's Who-hoo

s and gold slippers, otherwise dressed up in the uniform of a

people like that?" a

ll of 'em," re

ort of thing-but where would you lay y

-old infant. If you want a real one, fish it out and fire ahead. If you don't, make one up for yourself and call it 'The Isle of Piccolo,' or something of that sort. After you've got your chorus goi

pirat

heart

e biggest joys t

he he

r eyes

to-marry-

OR

ing to-mar

h a heart fu

r we a

weds t

g to-marry-

thusiastically, "can't you

Brief, "that I can. You ought

he-whip. She sings a soprano solo of protest, and the pirate summons his hirelings to cast Drivelina into a Donjuan cell, when boom! an American war-ship appears on the horizon. The crew, under

kies, jacki

ke the bes

from Zanzibar

ght for U

ed we do,

life that that'

dle

that's the thing to doodl

" demanded

sked the Lawyer. "This

lost father," said the Idiot. "The heroine then sings a pathetic love-song about her baboon baby, in a green light to the accompaniment of a lot of pink satin monkeys banging cocoa

or the pi

ockets ful

to marry

ow he'l

the Lo

g-to-marry

thing to dood

, after a pause. "How i

the Poet, "but, after all, you have got a st

for that popped right out of Mr. Brief's mouth as smoothly as though the name Drivelina had been written on his heart for centuries. Then the title-'The Isle of Piccolo'-that's a dandy, and I give you my word of honor, I'd never even thought of a title for the

-boon-b

boon-ba

you dee

-hee-he

oon-ba

oon-ba

y-hay-hay-hay-h

s bumping their cocoanut-shells

rst act, what?" ask

ot. "You don't have to write that. The

cond act?" a

he whole blooming business. I'll leave the second act to you. When you collaborate, Mr. Poet, you've go

hat that is sometimes the harde

cing," said the Idiot, "and

, "that that opera produced in the righ

er all, Mr. Bib, you are a man of

e night," said

demanded the Idi

answered the Bibl

. "When you go back there, Mr. Bib, I wis