An Evening Wind Uprose Too,

The Very Dogs Were All Asleep, And The Flies, Drunk With Moist Sugar In The Grocer's Shop, Forgot Their Wings And Briskness, And Baked To Death In Dusty Corners Of The Window.

Why Then We Should Drop Into Poetry.

Poetry Makes Life What Lights And Music Do The Stage.

"you See," Said Mr. Toots, "what I Wanted In A Wife Was - In Short, Was Sense. Money, Feeder, I Had. Sense I - I Had Not, Particularly."

Keep Out Of Chancery. It's Being Ground To Bits In A Slow Mill; It's Being Roasted At A Slow Fire; It's Being Stung To Death By Single Bees; It's Being Drowned By Drops; It's Going Mad By Grains.