I Am Seventy Years Old, A Gray

The Dog Is Guided By Kindly Instinct To The Man Or Woman Whose Heart Is Open To His Advances. The Cat Often Leaves The Friend Who Courts Her, To Honor, Or To Harass, The Unfortunate Mortal Who Shudders At Her Unwelcome Caresses.

The Sanguine Assurance That Men And Nations Can Be Legislated Into Goodness, That Pressure From Without Is Equivalent To A Moral Change Within, Needs A Strong Backing Of Inexperience.

Love Is A Malady, The Common Symptoms Of Which Are The Same In All Patients.

But Self-satisfaction, If As Buoyant As Gas, Has An Ugly Trick Of Collapsing When Full Blown, And Facts Are Stony Things That Refuse To Melt Away In The Sunshine Of A Smile.

There Are Few Nudities So Objectionable As The Naked Truth.