We could have braved the briny, strange countries to explore,
Or Christianized the Heathen without suffering any more
Than we do here in our strict cage, pent up by rule and rote,
To eat the bread of routine, like any ass or goat.
What tho’ we truly strug and strive, to promptly do the task we’re given,
We have to sign the book at five, so might as well have never striven.
The Wise cultivate the power of adaptation, the fool standeth against circumstances and is carried away.
A TALE OF RUSSIA
Sloberino Pullovitch sat in his sumptuous office. He sat, because he had been out the night before and did not know yet how it had ended. Every time he moved, four secretaries jumped to listen to his commands. Every time he snored, the four secretaries rang bells, and seven messengers burst into the room, lined up and bowed, awaiting orders. Outside of these doings, all was quiet for several hours. Then Pullovitch spoke. He said, “Hoot mon.” It will be noticed that Pullovitch spoke with a Scotch accent; but he was not Scotch. He was a pure Russian; but his mother had been frightened by a Scotch Terrier before he was born—so Pullovitch was born with a Scotch plaid pattern on the soles of his feet, and spoke Scotch when he was half-cocked. It ought to be explained that Sloberino Pullovitch enjoyed a very lucrative position in the Russian government, and was big Indian, high up in political circles.