I Love The Chill October Days, When

Splendid Cheeses They Were, Ripe And Mellow, And With A Two Hundred Horse-power Scent About Them That Might Have Been Warranted To Carry Three Miles, And Knock A Man Over At Two Hundred Yards.

I Attribute The Quarrelsome Nature Of The Middle Ages Young Men Entirely To The Want Of The Soothing Weed.

What Readers Ask Nowadays In A Book Is That It Should Improve, Instruct And Elevate. This Book Wouldn't Elevate A Cow. I Cannot Conscientiously Recommend It For Any Useful Purposes Whatever. All I Can Suggest Is That When You Get Tired Of Reading "the Best Hundred Books," You May Take This For Half An Hour. It Will Be A Change.

I Love The Chill October Days, When The Brown Leaves Lie Thick And Sodden Underneath Your Feet ... The Evenings In Late Autumn Time, When The White Mist Creeps Across The Fields, Making It Seem As Though Old Earth, Feeling The Night Air Cold To Its Poor Bones, Were Drawing Ghostly Bedclothes Round Its Withered Limbs.

The Shy Man Does Have Some Slight Revenge Upon Society For The Torture It Inflicts Upon Him. He Is Able, To A Certain Extent, To Communicate His Misery. He Frightens Other People As Much As They Frighten Him. He Acts Like A Damper Upon The Whole Room, And The Most Jovial Spirits Become, In His Presence, Depressed And Nervous.