Life Calls The Tune, We Dance.

From Behind A Wooden Crate We Saw A Long Black-muzzled Nose Poking Round At Us. We Took Him Out-soft, Wobbly, Tearful; Set Him Down On His Four, As Yet Not Quite Simultaneous Legs, And Regarded Him. He Wandered A Little Round Our Legs, Neither Wagging His Tail Nor Licking At Our Hands; Then He Looked Up, And My Companion Said: "he's An Angel!"

The French Cook; We Open Tins.

Dreaming Is The Poetry Of Life, And We Must Be Forgiven If We Indulge In It A Little.

The Talked-about Is Always The Last To Hear The Talk . . .

Only Love Makes Fruitful The Soul. The Sense Of Form That Both Had In Such High Degree Prevented Much Demonstration; But To Be With Him, Do Things For Him, To Admire, And Credit Him With Perfection; And, Since She Could Not Exactly Wear The Same Clothes Or Speak In The Same Clipped, Quiet, Decisive Voice, To Dislike The Clothes And Voices Of Other Men - All This Was Precious To Her Beyond Everything.