"A magnet hung in old Lawrence,

And all around it were instruments, -

A spectroscope, an induction coil,

A Leyden jar, coated with tin-foil,

A thermometer and a huge sextant,

A barometer and an old quadrant,

An air-pump furnished with a glass bell jar,

A commutator, and an iron bar.

But for metals the magnet had no love,

He cared for nothing here above.

From jars and sounders and coils he'd turn,

For he'd set his love on a Pompeiian urn

which had recently been purchased by the Fine Arts Department at great expense."

"Very fair, but the author parades the parody a little too much, and the last line is a little too pompous."

"Well, then," Lampy replied, "as the story of the magnet does n't attract you, I will pass on to the next. I have here a few queries which may strike you as rather queer. Here is one: 'Did you see the ghost fan Tom?' "

I started for the door, but it was of no use. The fiend was in the way. "What was it the racquet?" Wellnigh stupefied, still I chanced to remember an old legend I had once heard. Perhaps the Lamia had reappeared in the form of Lampy. I caught on to the idea, and played the philosopher. I stared. Slowly but surely Lampy drooped. His legs elongated, his arms became wings, his nose became a beak. It was - it was the Ibis. Still he could talk. "Who did lemonade?" he squeaked. I took the only rope I had - my tennis net - and tied it to the bedpost. "Did you ever see tennis net?" he chuckled. I threw it out the window. "What was it kerosene?" I began to descend. The Ibis leaned far out the window and screeched, 'Will you subscribe?" - and I woke up.