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!