At Twelve Noon, The Natives

But Why, Oh Why, Do The Wrong People Travel, When The Right People Stay At Home?

I Don't Believe In Astrology. The Only Stars I Can Blame For My Failures Are Those That Walk About The Stage.

It's Never Too Early For A Cocktail.

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.

Conceit Is An Outward Manifestation Of Inferiority.