A House Is Not A Home Until

Among The Myrtles The Mantids Moved, Lightly, Carefully, Swaying Slightly, The Quintessence Of Evil. They Were Lank And Green, With Chinless Faces And Monstrous Globular Eyes, Frosty Gold, With An Expression Of Intense, Predatory Madness In Them. The Crooked Arms, With Their Fringes Of Sharp Teeth, Would Be Raised In Mock Supplication To The Insect World, So Humble, So Fervent, Trembling Slightly When A Butterfly Flew Too Close.

They Were Maps That Lived, Maps That One Could Study, Frown Over, And Add To; Maps, In Short, That Really Meant Something.

A House Is Not A Home Until It Has A Dog.

In Conservation, The Motto Should Always Be 'never Say Die'.

There Is No First World And Third World. There Is Only One World, For All Of Us To Live And Delight In.