Chapter 47
Babbalanja Philosophizes, And My Lord Media Passes Round The Calabashes An interval of silence passed; when Media cried, "Out upon thee, Yoomy! curtail that long face of thine." "How can he, my lord," said Mohi, "when he is thinking of furlongs?" "Fathoms you mean, Mohi; see you not he is musing over the gunwale? And now, minstrel, a banana for thy thoughts. Come, tell me how you poets spend so many hours in meditation." "My lord, it is because, that when we think, we think so little of ourselves." "I thought as much," said Mohi, "for no sooner do I undertake to be sociable with myself, than I am straightway forced to beat a retreat." "Ay, old man," said Babbalanja, "many of us Mardians are but sorry hosts to ourselves. Some hearts are hermits." "If not of yourself, then, Yoo
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