"you See," Said Mr. Toots, "what I

Morning Drew On Apace. The Air Became More Sharp And Piercing, As Its First Dull Hue: The Death Of Night, Rather Than The Birth Of Day: Glimmered Faintly In The Sky. The Objects Which Had Looked Dim And Terrible In The Darkness, Grew More And More Defined, And Gradually Resolved Into Their Familiar Shapes. The Rain Came Down, Thick And Fast; And Pattered, Noisily, Among The Leafless Bushes.

A Man Ain't Got No Right To Be A Public Man, Unless He Meets The Public Views.

On The Motionless Branches Of Some Trees, Autumn Berries Hung Like Clusters Of Coral Beads, As In Those Fabled Orchards Where The Fruits Were Jewels . . .

There Are Only Two Styles Of Portrait Painting; The Serious And The Smirk.

I Think The Romans Must Have Aggravated One Another Very Much, With Their Noses. Perhaps, They Became The Restless People They Were, In Consequence.