in the desert of
Gobi. The message is of considerable length, and contains much
that is purely personal.--_Daily Newspaper_.

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.