“I think you ought to live at a Hotel,” was the reply.

The Monomaniac went home and told his Wife that he had been insulted.

At 11.30 came a Committee of Ladies soliciting Funds for the Home for the Friendless.

“Those who are Friendless don’t know their own Luck,” said the Busy Man, whereupon the Ladies went outside and agreed that he was a Brute.

At Noon he went out and lunched on Bromo Seltzer.

When he rushed back to tackle his Correspondence, he was met by a large Body of Walking Delegates who told him that he had employed a non-union Man to paint his Barn and that he was a Candidate for the Boycott.  He put in an Hour squaring himself and then he turned to the Stenographer.

“How far have we got?” he asked.

“‘Dear Sir,’” was the Reply.

[Illustration:  The Committee.]

Just then he got the Last Straw—­a bewildered Rufus with a Letter of Introduction.  That took 40 Minutes.  When Rufe walked out, the Busy Man fell with his Face among the unanswered Letters.

“Call a Cab,” he said.

“The ’Phone is out of order,” was the Reply.

“Ring for a Messenger,” he said.

She pulled the Buzzer and in 20 minutes there slowly entered a boy from the Telegraph Office.

The Man let out a low Howl like that of a Prairie Wolf and ran from the Office.  When he arrived at Home he threw his Hat at the Rack and then made the Children back into the Corner and keep quiet.  His Wife told around that Henry was Working too hard.

* * * * *

MORAL:  Work is a Snap, but the Intermissions do up the Nervous System.

* * * * *

THE SICKLY DREAM AND HOW IT WAS DOCTORED UP

One Day a pure white Soul that made Sonnets by hand was sitting in his Apartment embroidering a Canto.  He had all the Curtains drawn and was sitting beside a Shaded Candle waiting for the Muse to keep her Appointment.  He wore an Azure Dressing-Gown.  Occasionally he wept, drying his Eyes on a Salmon Pink Handkerchief bordered with yellow Morning Glories.  Any one could tell by looking at him that he was a delicate Organism and had been raised a Pet.

Presently he put his left Hand to his Brow and began to indite with a pearl-handled Pen on Red Paper.  Then there was a Ring at the Bell.

“Oh, Fudge!” said the Author.  “That distressing Sound!  And just when I was beginning to generate Ethereal Vapor.  Hereafter I shall order the vulgar Tradespeople to deliver all Marshmallows at the Servants’ Entrance.”

He began to write again, reviving himself at the end of each Word, by means of Smelling Salts.  He did not see the Artist standing in the Doorway.

The Artist was a muscular Person with an Ashen Complexion and a Suit that was not large enough to show the entire Pattern.  He carried a Bludgeon with a Horse’s Head on it.  In order to attract the Attention of Mr. Swinburne, he whistled through his Teeth, whereupon the Author jumped over the Table and fell among the Rugs, faintly calling “Mother!  Mother!”