THE CONCORD PHILOSOPHERS
(Washington Hatchet.)
Across the moorlands of the Not We chase the gruesome When,
And hunt the Itness of the What
Through forests of the Then.
Into the inner consciousness
We trace the crafty Where,
We track the Ergo tough, and beard
The Ego in his lair.
With lassoes of the brain we catch
The Isness of the Was,
And in the copses of the Whence
We hear the Think-bees buzz.
We climb the slippery Which-bark tree
To watch the Thusness roll,
And pause betimes with th' gnostic shy
To woo the Over-soul.
Arkansaw Traveller: A little boy sat on the floor playing. Suddenly he set up a howl. "Henry, what is the matter?" asked his mother. "The cat scratched me." "Why, the cat is not here. When did she scratch you?" "Yesterday." "Well, why are you crying now?" "Cause I forgot it then."
