ost as
unerring as a woman's intuition.

This seventh sense told Gud that he had entered a spiritual realm, and
he became aware of a black ghost of a white cat with one ghoulish
unseeing eye, sitting on the shadow of a back fence echoing a diabolical
howl.

Gud could not hear the ghost cat howl, but he knew that it was howling
because with his seventh sense he felt the vibration of its howl
quivering through the impalpable and ghostly ether.

The howl of the ghost cat petrified Gud's gall, for he sensed that the
creature had nine notches on its tail; hence would never live again, and
had nothing to howl about.

So Gud picked up a stone and threw it at the ghost cat, but he aimed
high, and the stone, passing through a bush of credulity, killed two
birds of promise; whereupon the ghost cat ceased to howl.

As Gud went on he became aware of ghosts strolling about among the ruins
of nothing.

And Gud said to the ghosts: "Where is your king?"

And the ghosts replied to Gud: "We have no king."

"Then," said Gud, "I would be told of your form of government."

But the ghosts answered: "Our government has no form because we have no
government."

"Then," said Gud, "I would meet your doctors or lawyers or great and
famous ghosts."

And they made answer that they had none.

"Then," said Gud, "I would be told of your religion and learn of your
faith."

Said the ghosts: "We have no religion and no faith, for we are too
immaterial to sin; and are therefore without fear of death, and thus
need no religion and no faith."

"Then," said Gud, "this is a dull place. What do you call it?"

Replied the ghosts, who had a very long time to live: "We have no name
for the place, but we are very happy here."

When Gud learned that this place was nameless, he whistled for his
Underdog and they went on and passed through an impalpable fog of
etheric vibrations, and over a great gulf of sublimated emptiness, and
through a dark forest of neglected memories, and across a sandless
desert swept by a breathless wind.

Chapter LV

The graveyard of the gods is silent under a heavy sky,
Where all the gods who never lived are buried when they die.

Pale angels kneel beside the graves, stretching row on row,
And madmen carrying mouldy flowers quickly come and go.

A withered lily in her hand Saint Any-One-At-All,
With pale, thin fingers opens the gate in an ivied wall.

Her face an open wound of