THE FUGITIVE THOUGHT.

When scribbling late one night I happened to alight On the happiest thought I’d thought For many a year. I hailed it with delight But ere I’d time to write My pencil had contrived To disappear.

Where could the thing have gone? I searched and searched upon The table, and beneath it And behind it. I pushed my books about, Turned my pockets inside out, But the more I looked The more I could n’t find it!

Then I searched and searched again On the table, but in vain, And I fussed and fumed And felt about the floor. And I rose up in my wroth, And I shook the tablecloth, And turned my pockets Inside out once more! “This will not do,” I said, “I must not lose my head!” So I went and tore the cushions From my chair, Shook all my rugs and mats, And shoes and coats and hats, And crawled beneath the Sofa in despair!

Then I said, “I must keep cool!” So I took my two-foot rule And I poked among the Ashes in the grate. And I paced my room in rage, Like a wild beast in a cage, In a furious, frightful, frantic, Frenzied state! At last, upon my soul, I lost my self-control And indulged in language Quite unfit to hear; Till out of breath—I gasped And clutched my head—and grasped That pencil calmly resting on My ear! Yes, I found that pencil stub! But my thought—Aye, there’s the rub In vain I try to call it Back again. It has fled beyond recall, And what is worst of all ’T will turn up in some Other fellow’s brain! So I denounce forthwith Any future Jones or Smith Who thinks my thought—a Plagiarist of the worst. I shall know my thought again When I hear it, and it’s plain It must be mine because I thought it first!