the eyes of all are
fixed, not upon each other, nor upon their boot-straps, but upon the
sky above. There is a look of rapture upon their faces, and now and
then, amid grunts and groans, they cry out with excitement and
triumph.

I approach one and say to him, "Friend, what is this you are doing?"

He answers, without pausing to glance at me, "I am performing
spiritual exercises. See how I rise?"

"But," I say, "you are not rising at all!"

Whereat he becomes instantly angry. "You are one of the scoffers!"

"But, friend," I protest, "don't you feel the earth under your feet?"

"You are a materialist!"

"But, friend, I can see--"

"You are without spiritual vision!"

And so I move on among the sweating and groaning hordes. Being of a
sympathetic turn of mind, I cannot help being distressed by the
prevalence of this singular practice among so large a portion of the
human race. How is it possible that none of them should suspect the
futility of their procedure? Or can it really be that I am
uncomprehending? That in some way they are actually getting off the
ground, or about to get off the ground?

Then I observe a new phenomenon: a man gliding here and there among
the bootstrap-lifters, approaching from the rear and slipping his
hands into their pockets. The position of the spiritual exercisers
greatly facilitates his work; their eyes being cast up to heaven, they
do not see him, their thoughts being occupied, they do not heed him;
he goes through their pockets at leisure, and transfers the contents
to a bag he carries, and then moves on to the next victim. I watch him
for a while, and finally approach and ask, "What are you doing, sir?"

He answers, "I am picking pockets."

"Oh," I say, puzzled by his matter-of-course tone. "But--I beg
pardon--are you a thief?"

"Oh, no," he answers, smilingly, "I am the agent of the Wholesale
Pickpockets' Association. This is Prosperity."

"I see," I reply. "And these people let you--"

"It is the law," he says. "It is also the gospel."

I turn, following his glance, and observe another person
approaching--a stately figure, clad in scarlet and purple robes,
moving with slow dignity. Ha gazes about at the sweating and grunting
hordes; now and then he stops and lifts his hands in a gesture of
benediction, and proclaims in rolling tones, "Blessed are the
Bootstrap-lifters, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." He moves on,
and after a bit stops and announces again, "Man