Now unto this Heathen came a Modern Missionary, girt with Sword, with Commercialism and Militarism in his coat pockets, with a Colt’s revolver on his hip, and a bottle of Champagny Water in his grip, and he lifted up his voice and spake unto the Heathen, saying:
“Harken, Behold, likewise lo, poor benighted Heathen. You are a Good Thing, and you know it not; but I even I, the forerunner and jumper of Peace and Goodwill, know it. I come to do you good. You need a whole lot of saving and as the Prophet of Civilization, I come to do the job. I bring you Peace, Virtue, and Honesty, and a lot of other things that are handy to have in the house. Your Gods I will take away from you. They will make nice bric-a-brac.” And immediately, that is to say, as soon as the Heathen wasn’t looking, he smote him a great smote with the sword, so that he died at Peace, took his wife to do chores about the house and annexed his property.
Blessed are the meek.
I PLAY THE GAME
I’m playing a game I never can win,
That I surely must lose in the end;
And yet, it’s so mysterious and queer,
That I’m glad my strength to expend
In struggle, and strife, and scheme,
To move me and mine in the game;