Fiction Is Truth's Elder Sister. Obviously. No

Of Course The Man Was Wild Too. He Was Dreadfully Wild. He Didn't Even Begin To Be Tame Till He Met The Woman, And She Told Him That She Did Not Like Living In His Wild Ways. She Picked Out A Nice Dry Cave, Instead Of A Heap Of Wet Leaves, To Lie Down In; And She Strewed Clean Sand On The Floor; And She Lit A Nice Fire Of Wood At The Back Of The Cave; And She Hung A Dried Wild-horse Skin, Tail Down, Across The Opening Of The Cave; And She Said, 'wipe Your Feet, Dear, When You Come In, And Now We'll Keep House.

The Cat Will Keep His Side Of The Bargain. He Will Kill Mice, And He Will Be Kind To Babies When He Is In The House, Just So Long As They Do Not Pull His Tail Too Hard. But When He Has Done That, And Between Times, And When The Moon Gets Up And Night Comes, He Is The Cat That Walks By Himself, And All Places Are Alike To Him. Then He Goes Out To The Wet Wild Woods Or Up On The Wet Wild Trees Or On The Wet Wild Roofs, Waving His Wild Tail And Walking By His Wild Lone.

Bite On The Bullet, Old Man, And Don't Let Them Think You're Afraid.

Well, If I Am A Man, A Man I Must Become.

Ah! What Avails The Classic Bent And What The Cultured Word, Against The Undoctored Incident That Actually Occurred? And What Is Art Whereto We Press Through Paint And Prose And Rhyme- When Nature In Her Nakedness Defeats Us Every Time?