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Serving New Thought is pleased to present
Mince Pie
"Evolution is better than Revolution. New Thought Library's New Thought Archives encompass a full range of New Thought from Abrahamic to Vedic. New Thought literature reflects the ongoing evolution of human thought. New Thought's unique inclusion of science, art and philosophy presents a dramatic contrast with the magical thinking of decadent religions that promulgate supersticions standing in the way of progress to shared peace and prosperity." ~ Avalon de Rossett
Contents - Instructions - On Filling an Ink Well - Old Thoughts for Christmas - Christmas Cards - On Unanswering Letters - A Letter to Father Time - What Men Live By - The Unnatural Naturalist - Sitting in the Barber's Chair - Brown Eyes and Equinoxes - 163 Innocent Old Men - A Tragic Smell in Marathon - Bullied by the Birds - A Message for Boonville - Making Marathon Safe for the Urchin - The Smell of Smells - A Japanese Bachelor - Two Days We Celebrate - The Urchin at the Zoo - Fellow Craftsmen - The Key Ring - "Owd Bob" - The Apple That No One Ate - As to Rumors - Our Mothers - Greeting to American Anglers - Mrs. Izaak Walton Writers a Letter to Her Mother - Truth - The Tragedy of Washington Square - If Mr. Wilson Were the Weather Man - The Truth at Last - Fixed Ideas - Trials of a President Travelling Abroad - Diary of a Publisher's Office Boy - The Dog's Commandments - The Value of Criticism - A Marriage Service for Commuters - The Sunny Side of Grub Street - Burial Service for a Newspaper Joke - Advice to Those Visiting a Baby - Abou Ben Woodrow - My Magnificent System - Letters to Cynthia: I. In Praise of Boobs - Letters to Cynthia: II. Simplification - To an Unknown Damsel - Thoughts on Setting an Alarm Clock - Songs in a Shower Bath - On Dedicating a New Teapot - The Unforgivable Syntax - Visiting Poets - A Good Home in the Suburbs - Walt Whitman Miniatures - On Doors -
Dear Sir—What is a Boob? Will you please discuss the subject a little? Perhaps I'm a boob for asking—but I'd like to know. Cynthia.
The Boob, my dear Cynthia, is Nature's device for mitigating the quaintly blended infelicities of existence. Never be too bitter about the Boob. The Boob is you and me and the man in the elevator.
As long as the Boob ratio remains high, humanity is safe. The Boob is the last repository of the stalwart virtues. The Boob is faith, hope and charity. The Boob is the hope of conservatives, the terror of radicals and the meal check of cynics. If you are run over on Market Street and left groaning under the mailed fist of a flivver, the Bolsheviki and I.W.W. will be watching the shop windows. It will be the Boob who will come to your aid, even before the cop gets there.
If you were to dig a deep and terrible pit in the middle of Chestnut Street, and illuminate it with signs and red lights and placards reading, DO NOT WALK INTO THIS PIT, 1653 Boobs would tumble into it during the course of the day. Boobs have faith. They are eager to plunge in where an angel wouldn't even show his periscope.
But that does not prove anything creditable to human nature. For though 1653 people would fall into our pit (which any Rapid Transit Company will dig for us free of charge) 26,448 would cautiously and suspiciously and contemptuously avoid it. The Boob ratio is just about 1 to 16.
It does not pay to make fun of the Boob. There is no malice in him, no insolence, no passion to thrive at the expense of his fellows. If he sees some one on a street corner gazing open-mouthed at the sky, he will do likewise, and stand there for half hour with his apple of Adam expectantly vibrating. But is that a shameful trait? May not a Boob expect to see angels in the shimmering blue of heaven? Is he more disreputable than the knave who frisks his watch meanwhile? And suppose he does see an angel, or even only a blue acre of sky—is that not worth as much as the dial in his poke?
It is the Boob who is always willing to look hopefully for angels who will see them ultimately. And the man who is only looking for the Boob's timepiece will do time of his own by and by.
The Boob is convinced that the world is conducted on genteel and friendly principles. He feels in his heart that even the law of gravity will do him no harm. That is why he steps unabashed into our pit on Chestnut Street; and finding himself sprawling in the bottom of it, he bears no ill will to Sir Isaac Newton. He simply knows that the law of gravity took him for some one else—a street-cleaning contractor, perhaps.
A small boy once defined a Boob as one who always treats other people better than he does himself.
The Boob is hopeful, cheery, more concerned over other people's troubles than his own. He goes serenely unsuspicious of the brick under the silk hat, even when the silk hat is on the head of a Mayor or City Councilman. He will pull every trigger he meets, regardless that the whole world is loaded and aimed at him. He will keep on running for the 5:42 train, even though the timetable was changed the day before yesterday. He goes through the revolving doors the wrong way. He forgets that the banks close at noon on Saturdays. He asks for oysters on the first of June. He will wait for hours at the Chestnut Street door, even though his wife told him to meet her at the ribbon counter.
Yes, he has a wife. But if he was not a Boob before marriage he will never become so after. Women are the natural antidotes of Boobs.
The Boob is not quarrelsome. He is willing to believe that you know more about it than he does. He is always at home for ideas.
Of course, what bothers other people is that the Boob is so happy. He enjoys himself. He falls into that Rapid Transit pit of ours and has more fun out of the tumble than the sneering 26,448 who stand above untumbled. The happy simp prefers a 4 per cent that pays to a 15 per cent investment that returns only engraved prospectuses. He stands on that street corner looking for an imaginary angel parachuting down, and enjoys himself more than the Mephistopheles who is laughing up his sleeve.
Nature must love the Boob, because she is a good deal of a Boob herself. How she has squandered herself upon mountain peaks that are useless except for the Alpenstock Trust; upon violets that can't be eaten; upon giraffes whose backs slope too steeply to carry a pack! Can it be that the Boob is Nature's darling, that she intends him to outlive all the rest?
Be sure you're a Boob, and then go ahead.
But never, dear Cynthia, confuse the Boob with the Poor Fish. The Poor Fish, as an Emersonian thinker has observed, is the Boob gone wrong. The Poor Fish is the cynical, sneering simpleton who, if he did see an angel, would think it was only some one dressed up for the movies. The Poor Fish is Why Boobs Leave Home.
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