A Boy's Muscles Move Quicker Than His

"not Sure," He Retorted; "you Call Yourself A Journalist, And Admit There Is A Subject Under Heaven Of Which You Are Not Sure!"

1lb Beefstak, With 1pt Bitter Beer Every 6 Hours. 1 Ten-mile Walk Every Morning. 1 Bed At 11 Sharp Every Night. And Don't Stuff Your Head With Things You Don't Understand.

Seek Out Some Retired And Old-world Spot, Far From The Madding Crowd, And Dream Away A Sunny Week Among Its Drowsy Lanes - Some Half-forgotten Nook, Hidden Away By The Fairies, Out Of Reach Of The Noisy World - Some Quaint-perched Eyrie On The Cliffs Of Time, From Whence The Surging Waves Of The Nineteenth Century Would Sound Far-off And Faint.

In The Church Is A Memorial To Mrs. Sarah Hill, Who Bequeathed 1 Pound Annually, To Be Divided At Easter, Between Two Boys And Two Girls Who "have Never Been Undutiful To Their Parents; Who Have Never Been Known To Swear Or To Tell Untruths, To Steal, Or To Break Windows." Fancy Giving Up All That For Five Shillings A Year! It Is Not Worth It!

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.