A Puppy Is But A Dog, Plus

I Am Eighty Years Old. There Seems To Be Nothing To Add To This Statement. I Have Reached The Age Of Undecorated Facts - Facts That Refuse To Be Softened By Sentiment, Or Confused By Nobility Of Phrase.

Whereas The Dog Strives To Lessen The Distance Between Himself And Man, Seeks Ever To Be Intelligent And Intelligible, And Translates Into Looks And Actions The Words He Cannot Speak, The Cat Dwells Within The Circle Of Her Own Secret Thoughts.

We Have But The Memories Of Past Good Cheer, We Have But The Echoes Of Departed Laughter. In Vain We Look And Listen For The Mirth That Has Died Away. In Vain We Seek To Question The Gray Ghosts Of Old-time Revelers.

Traveling Is, And Has Always Been, More Popular Than The Traveler.

Tea Had Come As A Deliverer To A Land That Called For Deliverance; A Land Of Beef And Ale, Of Heavy Eating And Abundant Drunkenness; Of Gray Skies And Harsh Winds; Of Strong-nerved, Stout-purposed, Slow-thinking Men And Women. Above All, A Land Of Sheltered Homes And Warm Firesides - Firesides That Were Waiting - Waiting For The Bubbling Kettle And The Fragrant Breath Of Tea.