The world is full of I's, but there is only one Me." Upon this sort of thing was I fed, not only spiritually but physically, by my Aunt Jerusha.

When, for instance, I found myself suffering from a pain in my Commissary Department for the sole and sufficient reason that my nurse had inadvertently handed me the hard cider jug instead of my noon-day bottle of discosaurus' milk, she would rattle off some such statement as this: _Thought is everything.
Pain is something.

Hence where there is no thought there can be no pain.

Wherefore if you have a pain it is evident that you have a thought.

To be rid of the pain stop thinking._ Then she would fix her eye on mine, and gaze at me sternly in an effort to remove my sufferings by the hot poultice of her own mushy reflections instead of getting the peppermint and the hot-water bag.
When night came on and I was restless instead of wooing slumber on my behalf with soft and soothing lullabies, or telling me fairy-stories such as children love, she would say: _The child's mind is immature.
His conclusions, therefore, are immature.