The Comfortable Thing About The Study Of

A Real Dog, Beloved And Therefore Pampered By His Mistress, Is A Lamentable Spectacle. He Suffers From Fatty Degeneration Of His Moral Being.

There Is Nothing In The World So Incomprehensible As The Joke We Do Not See.

Who That Has Plodded On To Middle Age Would Take Back Upon His Shoulders Ten Of The Vanished Years, With Their Mingled Pleasures And Pains? Who Would Return To The Youth He Is Forever Pretending To Regret?

Necessity Knows No Sunday.

There Are Few Things More Wearisome In A Fairly Fatiguing Life Than The Monotonous Repetition Of A Phrase Which Catches And Holds The Public Fancy By Virtue Of Its Total Lack Of Significance.