MESSAGE FROM MAHATMAS

SOUND the timbrel, beat the drum!

Word from the Mahatma’ s come.

Straight from Hoomi Koot & Co.

Comes the note to us below,

Full of joy and gossiping.

Hoomi Koot is summering

In the desert waste of Gobi,

In a cottage of adobe.

All the little Koots are well.

Tommy Koot has learned to spell.

Mrs. Koot is busy on

Papers on “The Great Anon,”

Which by special cable soon,

From her workshop in the moon,

Will be sent to us below

By grand Hoomi Koot & Co.

We are told that Maggie Koot

Looks well in her golfing suit;

And her brand-new Astral Bike

Is the best they’ ve seen this cike —

Cike is slang for cycle, so

I have learned from Koot & Co.

Soon she’ s going to take a run

Out from Gobi to the sun,

After which she thinks to race

For the Championship of Space,

And a trophy given by

The Grand High Pasupati.

Baby Koot has learned to walk,

And likewise,’ tis said, to talk;

But, to Mrs. Koot’ s dismay,

Seems to have a funny way:

Full of questions, “Why and How,”

All about the sacred cow.

Questions of a flippant ilk,

Like “Is Buddha made of milk?”

Questions void of answers spite

Of his parents’ second sight.

What to do with Baby Koot

Worries all the whole cahoot.

Finally the message ends

With best love to all our friends.

Give our enemies a twist.

Let each true theoso-fist

Strike a thunder-hitting blow

For the firm of Koot & Co.;

Strike till black is every eye

Doubting our theosophy.

And impress on every tribe

Now’ s the season to subscribe.

Guard against the coming storm;

Keep our astral bodies warm.

Give us bonnets for the head;

Keep our spirit stomachs fed.

Let your glad remittance go

Out to Hoomi Koot & Co.,

Through their Agents on the earth,

Men and women full of worth;

And when next a message comes

From the Koots down to their chums,

Those who’ ve paid their money down

Will receive a harp and crown.

Step up lively! now’ s the time

For your nickel and your dime,

To provide for winter suits

For the grand Mahatma Koots.

Furthermore, be not too brash,

Send it up in solid cash.

Astral money, it may be,

Circulates in theory;

But’ tis best to give us cold,

Bilious, drossy, filthy gold.

All our blessings to you go.

Yours, for health,

H. Koots & Co.