Wit Is The Salt Of Conversation, Not

It Is Claimed That The United States Gets The Cleanest And Purest Tea In The Market, And Certainly It Is Too Good To Warrant The Nervous Apprehension Which Strains And Dilutes It Into Nothingness. The English Do Not Strain Their Tea In The Fervid Fashion We Do. They Like To See A Few Leaves Dawdling About The Cup. They Like To Know What They Are Drinking.

There Is A Vast Deal Of Make-believe In The Carefully Nurtured Sentiment For Country Life, And The Barefoot Boy, And The Mountain Girl.

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.

Where There Is No Temptation, There Is No Virtue.

If Everybody Floated With The Tide Of Talk, Placidity Would Soon End In Stagnation. It Is The Strong Backward Stroke Which Stirs The Ripples, And Gives Animation And Variety.