In Baiting A Mousetrap With Cheese, Always

I Love Americans, But Not When They Try To Talk French. What A Blessing It Is That They Never Try To Talk English.

The Man Is A Common Murderer. A Common Murderer, Possible, But A Very Uncommon Cook.

The Cat Of The Slums And Alleys, Starved, Outcast, Harried, Still Keeps Amid The Prowlings Of Its Adversity The Bold, Free, Panther-tread With Which It Paced Of Yore The Temple Courts Of Thebes, Still Displays The Self-reliant Watchfulness Which Man Has Never Taught It To Lay Aside.

It Is An Admitted Fact That The Ordinary Tomtit Of Commerce Has A Sounder Aesthetic Taste Than The Average Female Relative In The Country.

The Fashion Just Now Is A Roman Catholic Frame Of Mind With An Agnostic Conscience: You Get The Mediaeval Picturesqueness Of The One With The Modern Conveniences Of The Other.