By The Cigars They Smoke, And The

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!"

Justice Is A Machine That, When Some One Has Once Given It The Starting Push, Rolls On Of Itself.

Early Morning Does Not Mince Words.

By The Cigars They Smoke, And The Composers They Love, Ye Shall Know The Texture Of Men's Souls.

Beginnings Are Always Messy.