“Money?  From pupils; and after we get going maybe somebody will endow us.  As for instructors, I think we know enough to be instructors ourselves,” replied the Idiot.  “For instance:  Pedagog’s University.  John Pedagog, President; Alonzo B. Whitechoker, Chaplain; Mrs. Smithers-Pedagog, Matron.  For Professor of Belles-lettres, the Bibliomaniac, assisted by the Poet; Medical Lectures by Dr. Capsule; Chemistry taught by our genial friend who occasionally imbibes; Chair in General Information, your humble servant.  Why, we would be overrun with pupils and money in less than a year.”

“A very good idea,” returned Mr. Pedagog.  “I have often thought that a nice little school could be started here to advantage, though I must confess that I had different ideas on the subject of the instructors.  You, my dear Idiot, would be a great deal more useful as a Professor Emeritus.”

“Hm!” said the Idiot.  “It sounds mighty well—­I’ve no doubt I should like it.  What is a Professor Emeritus, Mr. Pedagog?”

“He is a professor who is paid a salary for doing nothing.”

The whole table joined in a laugh, the Idiot included.

“By Jove!  Mr. Pedagog,” he said, as soon as he could speak, “you are just dead right about that.  That’s the place of places for me.  Salary and nothing to do!  Oh, how I’d love it!”

The rest of the breakfast was eaten in silence.  The spring chickens were too good and too plentiful to admit of much waste of time in conversation.  At the conclusion of the meal the Idiot rose from the table, and, after again congratulating Mr. Pedagog and his fiancee, announced that he was going to see his employer.

“On Sunday?” queried Mrs. Smithers.

“Yes; I want him to write me a recommendation as a man who can do nothing beautifully.”

“And why, pray?” asked Mr. Pedagog.

“I’m going to apply to the Trustees of Columbia College the first thing to-morrow morning for an Emeritus Professorship, for if anybody can do nothing and draw money for it gracefully I’m the man.  Wall Street is too wearing on my nerves,” he replied.

And in a moment he was gone.

“I like him,” said Mrs. Smithers.

“So do I,” said Mr. Pedagog.  “He isn’t half the idiot he thinks he is.”

THE END

By LILIAN BELL

A Little Sister to the Wilderness.  A Novel.  New Edition. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Gilt Top, $1 25.

The story is a pathetic one in many ways, for it portrays so strongly human lowliness and degradation.  The writer is well acquainted with the life and habits and dialect of the West Tennessee bottoms, and her story is written from the heart and with rare sympathy.  The lonely dyke roads, the cheerless homes, the shabby “store,” the emotional Methodist meeting, which lasts a week, having two sessions daily—­all these are