If Mr. Einstein Doesn't Like

A Man Gets On A Train With His Little Boy, And Gives The Conductor Only One Ticket. 'how Old's Your Kid?' The Conductor Says, And The Father Says, 'he's Four Years Old.' 'he Looks At Least Twelve To Me,' Says The Conductor. And The Father Says, 'can I Help It If He Worries?

The Naturalistic Literature Of This Country Has Reached Such A State That No Family Of Characters Is Considered True To Life Whichdoes Not Include At Least Two Hypochondriacs, One Sadist, And One Old Man Who Spills Food Down The Front Of His Vest.

It Must Be A Source Of Great Chagrin To Those In Charge To Think Of So Many People Being Able To Stick A Stamp On A Letter And Drop It In A Mail Box Without Any Trouble Or Suffering At All. They Are Probably Working On A System This Very Minute, Trying To Devise Some Way In Which The Public Can Be Made To Fill Out A Blank, Stand In Line, Consult Some Underling Who Will Refer Him To A Superior, And Then Be Made To Black Up With Burned Cork Before They Can Mail A Letter.

Anything Can Happen, But It Usually Doesn't.

The Free-lance Writer Is A Man Who Is Paid Per Piece Or Per Word Or Perhaps.