Half Of Tradition Is A Lie.

A Very Little Boy Stood Upon A Heap Of Gravel For The Honour Of Rum Alley. He Was Throwing Stones At Howling Urchins From Devil's Row, Who Were Circling Madly About The Heap And Pelting Him. His Infantile Countenance Was Livid With The Fury Of Battle. His Small Body Was Writhing In The Delivery Of Oaths.

A Learned Man Came To Me Once. He Said, "i Know The Way, -- Come." And I Was Overjoyed At This. Together We Hastened. Soon, Too Soon, Were We Where My Eyes Were Useless, And I Knew Not The Ways Of My Feet. I Clung To The Hand Of My Friend; But At Last He Cried, "i Am Lost.

Think As I Think," Said A Man, "or You Are Abominably Wicked; You Are A Toad." And After I Thought Of It, I Said, "i Will, Then, Be A Toad.

A Little Man Said To The Universe. "sir! I Exist." The Universe Replied: "that's Fine." Just Don't Think It Creates Any Obligation On My Part.

Tradition, Thou Art For Suckling Children, Thou Art The Enlivening Milk For Babes, But No Meat For Men Is In Thee.