| 687 | 688 | 689 | 690 | 691 |
| 1 | 314 | 629 | 943 | 1257 |
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mere worthless guess. What a scorcher I got, next mail! Such irony! such
sarcasm, such caustic praise of my superhonorable loyalty to the public!
And withal, such compassion for my stupidity, too, in not being able to
understand my own language. I cannot remember the words of this letter
broadside, but there was about a page used up in turning this idea round
and round and exposing it in different lights.
Unmailed Answer:
DEAR SIR,--What is the trouble with you? If it is your viscera, you
cannot have them taken out and reorganized a moment too soon. I mean,
if they are inside. But if you are composed of them, that is another
matter. Is it your brain? But it could not be your brain. Possibly it is
your skull: you want to look out for that. Some people, when they get an
idea, it pries the structure apart. Your system of notation has got in
there, and couldn't find room, without a doubt that is what the trouble
is. Your skull was not made to put ideas in, it was made to throw
potatoes at.
Yours Truly.
Mailed Answer:
DEAR SIR,--Come, come--take a walk; you disturb the children.
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