th anything, he would own up that he was working on a Mere
Trifle, and then, after being sufficiently urged, he would give a
Reading.

These Readings could have been headed off only by an Order of Court or
calling out the State Guard.

Inasmuch as the large-size Carnegie Medal for Heroism is waiting for
the Caller who has the immortal Rind to tell a poetical Pest that his
output is Punk, the Author found himself smeared with Compliments
after each of these parlor Try-Outs.

They kidded him into thinking that he had incubated a Whale.

When he had chewed up a Gross of Pencils and taken enough Tea to float
the Imperator, the great Work was complete and ready to be launched
with a loud Splash.

He began to inquire the Name of some prominent Theatre Blokie who was
a keen Student of the Classics and a Person of super-refined Taste.

The man he sought had moved into the Poor House, so he compromised by
expressing his typewritten Masterpiece to a Ringmaster whose name he
had seen on the Three Sheets. It was marked, "Valuable Package."

In a few months the hirelings of the Company and the Driver of the
Wagon became well acquainted with the Large Envelope containing the
only Hope of the present decadent Period.

Every time the Work came back to him with a brief printed Suggestion
that any Male Adult not physically disabled could make $1.75 a day
with a Shovel, the Author would appear at the Afternoon Club with
another scathing arraignment of certain Commercial Aspects of the
Modern Stage.

He saw that it was over their Heads.

It was too darned Dainty for a Flat-Head who spelt Art with a
lower-case "a."

Yet it was so drenched and saturated and surcharged with Merit that he
resolved to have it done by Local Amateurs rather than see it lost to
the World.

The Music was written by Genius No. 2, working in a Piano Store. He
had been writing Great Music for years.

Whenever he heard anything catchy, he went home and wrote it.

He was very Temperamental. That is, he got soused on about three, and,
while snooted, would deride Victor Herbert, thus proving that he was
Brilliant, though Erratic.

He had a trunkful of Tunes that were too scholarly for the Ikeys who
publish Popular Trash.

He fitted them on to the Libretto written by the Litry Guy.

When the two got together to run over the Book and Score, they were
sure enthusiastic.

The Author said the Lines were the best he had ever heard, and the
Composer said