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THE PHILOSOPHERS' TOUR.

THERE were once five learned men, who had been shut up all their lives
in their studies, poking their noses into saucepans full of cookeries,
which did not resemble savory soups or well-flavored ragouts, wearing
their eyes out with reading books printed in the crabbedest black letter
possible, and shrivelling up their brains with thinking, until they
quite rattled inside their skulls, all in pursuit of out-o'-the-way
knowledge.

There was really nothing scientific with which they were not
acquainted; while, in the mean time, one or two little things, perfectly
familiar to people who use their eyes for the purpose of noticing the
common occurrences and habits of every-day existence, and exercise their
understanding in everything that can make life comfortable and
agreeable, had entirely escaped the observation of our philosophers.

As the emperor allowed them each a handsome pension to advance the
interests of science, they went on with their discoveries rejoicing, and
for a long time had never stirred from their apartments in one of His
Majesty's country palaces. They scarcely left off thinking, when they
were asleep; never had the least idea what they were eating for dinner,
or even what the materials of that dinner looked like; and, in short,
were sublimely unconscious of any of the ordinary affairs or interests
of life; and thought only of sciences, and high-flown theories of
Health, of Natural Philosophy, Chemistry, Botany, and goodness knows
what beside. The fifth and last of the learned men was supposed to
consider silence as an art or science, since he hardly ever said
anything; and for that reason was thought to be wiser than the other
four put together.

At last, one fine morning, one of our learned men chanced to poke his
head out of the window, to see what on earth had become of one of his
glass retorts, which he had filled with gas until it went off like a
rocket; and could not help being struck with the blue sky, the fresh
green herbage, and the thousands of beautiful wild flowers that
sprinkled the grass. It was a charming summer day; the birds had not yet
left off singing, and the fresh breeze, fanning the bald forehead of the
philosopher, appeared wonderfully pleasant.

"Why, bless me!" cried the philosopher, whose name was Dr. Skihi; "while
I have been trying to reduce chemistry to the uses of a penny post, I
never thought of remarking whether it was a pl