‎'all We Need Is A Book,' Roared

Until We Consider Animal Life To Be Worthy Of The Consideration And Reverence We Bestow Upon Old Books And Pictures And Historic Monuments, There Will Always Be The Animal Refugee Living A Precarious Life On The Edge Of Extermination, Dependent For Existence On The Charity Of A Few Human Beings.

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.

Aspirin Is So Good For Roses, Brandy For Sweet Peas, And A Squeeze Of Lemon-juice For The Fleshy Flowers, Like Begonias.

Tea Would Arrive, The Cakes Squatting On Cushions Of Cream, Toast In A Melting Shawl Of Butter, Cups Agleam And A Faint Wisp Of Steam Rising From The Teapot Shawl.

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