One Day Mr. Bizzy got a quiet Tip from another Moral Detective, that the Man had stayed out until 2 A.M., at a Banquet given to a Militia Company, so he knew it was Time for him to Act.  He lay in Ambush until the Coast was Clear, and then he went across the Dead-Line and caught her on the Piazza.  She was Surprised to see him.

He told her all the Reports he had heard about her Husband, and said he was Sorry for her.  He wondered if they couldn’t get together a few of the Respectable Men and Women of the Neighborhood, and have a Talk with the Husband, and try to Pluck him as a Brand from the Burning.  She listened with that Ominous Calm which always precedes the Iowa Cyclone that takes the Roof off the Court House and moves the Poor Farm into the Adjoining County.  She said she would take her Husband aside and have a Confidential Chat with him, and if he wanted to be Plucked, then she would call in the Cyrenius Bizzy Association of Pluckers.

The He-Gossip went Home feeling that he was entitled to a Pedestal right in between Savonarola and Martin Luther.

When the Man came Home his Wife told him.  He murmured something about the Last Straw and moved swiftly out of doors.  Pulling up the Rover Stake from the Croquet Grounds as he ran, he cleared the Dividing Fence without touching his Hands and began to Clean House.  In about a Second there was a Sound as if somebody had stubbed his Toe and dropped a Crockery Store.  Then Cyrenius was seen to Break the Record for the Running Long Jump, off the Front Stoop into an Oleander Tub, while wearing a Screen Door.  After him came the Worldly Husband.  For several Minutes the Copse where once the Garden smiled was full of He-Gossip and Cries for Help.

[Illustration:  A MAN]

When the Man came back to where his Wife stood with her Hand on her Heart, he reported that the He-Gossip would be found on top of the Grape-Arbor.

MORAL:  Any one hoping to do Something in the Rescue Line had better go further than Next Door.

THE FABLE OF THE AUTHOR WHO WAS SORRY FOR WHAT HE DID TO WILLIE

An Author was sitting at his Desk trying to pull himself together and grind out Any Old Thing that could be converted into Breakfast Food.  It was his Off Day, however.  His Brain felt as if some one had played a Mean Trick on him and substituted a Side-Order of Cauliflower.  All he could do was to lean up against his Desk and make marks and Piffle his Time away.  Between Scribbles he wrote a few Verses about, “When Willie Came to say Good Night.”  It was a Sad Effort.  He made it almost as Salty as a Mother Song and filled it with Papa and Mamma and the Patter of Baby Feet.  He used Love-Light and the Evening Prayer and the Heart-Strings and other venerable Paraphernalia.  He had to commit Infanticide to make it Weepy enough for the last Stanza.  The Author wrote this Stuff merely to Get Back at himself and see how Sloppy he could be.  He did not intend to Print it, because he was not a Vendor of Death-Beds, and he shrank from making any violent Assault on the Sensibilities.  So he tossed the Idle Product into the Waste-Basket and wondered if he was biginning to lose his Mind.  With that Poem in his Right Hand he could have walked into Bloomingdale and no Questions Asked.