oyed them.
They are rather heavy for the digestion."

"That's so," said Ptolemy. "I've had experience with pyramids myself."

"You never ate one, did you, Ptolemy?" queried Bonaparte.

"Not raw," said Ptolemy, with a chuckle. "Though I've been tempted many
a time to call for a second joint of the Sphinx."

There was a laugh at this, in which all but Baron Munchausen joined.

"I think it is too bad," said the Baron, as the laughter subsided--"I
think it is very much too bad that you shades have brought mundane
prejudice with you into this sphere. Just because some people with
finite minds profess to disbelieve my stories, you think it well to be
sceptical yourselves. I don't care, however, whether you believe me or
not. The fact remains that I have eaten one fried pyramid and countless
stewed icicles, and the stewed icicles were finer than any diamond-back
rat Confucius ever had served at a state banquet."

"Where's Shakespeare to-night?" asked Confucius, seeing that the Baron
was beginning to lose his temper, and wishing to avoid trouble by
changing the subject. "Wasn't he invited, General?"

"Yes," said Washington, "he was invited, but he couldn't come. He had to
go over the river to consult with an autograph syndicate they've formed
in New York. You know, his autographs sell for about one thousand
dollars apiece, and they're trying to get up a scheme whereby he shall
contribute an autograph a week to the syndicate, to be sold to the
public. It seems like a rich scheme, but there's one thing in the way.
Posthumous autographs haven't very much of a market, because the mortals
can't be made to believe that they are genuine; but the syndicate has got
a man at work trying to get over that. These Yankees are a mighty
inventive lot, and they think perhaps the scheme can be worked. The
Yankee _is_ an inventive genius."

"It was a Yankee invented that tale about your not being able to
prevaricate, wasn't it, George?" asked Diogenes.

Washington smiled acquiescence, and Doctor Johnson returned to
Shakespeare.

"I'd rather have a morning-glory vine than one of Shakespeare's
autographs," said he. "They are far prettier, and quite as legible."

"Mortals wouldn't," said Bonaparte.

"What fools they be!" chuckled Johnson.

At this point the canvas-back ducks were served, one whole shade of a
bird for each guest.

"Fall to, gentlemen," said Washington, gazing hungrily at his bird. "When
canvas-back ducks