There Is No Doubt That Every Healthy,

Most Personal Correspondence Of Today Consists Of Letters The First Half Of Which Are Given Over To An Indexed Statement Of Why The Writer Hasn't Written Before, Followed By One Paragraph Of Small Talk, With The Remainder Devoted To Reasons Why It Is Imperative That The Letter Be Brought To A Close.

For Most Visitors To Manhattan, Both Foreign And Domestic, New York Is The Shrine Of The Good Time. "i Don't See How You Stand It," They Often Say To The Native New Yorker Who Has Been Sitting Up Past His Bedtime For A Week In An Attempt To Tire His Guest Out. "it's All Right For A Week Or So, But Give Me The Little Old Home Town When It Comes To Living." And, Under His Breath, The New Yorker Endorses The Transfer And Wonders Himself How He Stands It.

The Most Common Of All Antagonisms Arises From A Man's Taking A Seat Beside You On The Train, A Seat To Which He Is Completely Entitled.

A Man Of Forty Today Has Nothing To Worry Him But Falling Hair, Inability To Button The Top Button, Failing Vision, Shortness Of Breath, A Tendency Of The Collar To Shut Off All Breathing, Trembling Of The Kidneys To Whatever Tune The Orchestra Is Playing, And A General Sense Of Giddiness When The Matter Of Rent Is Brought Up. Forty Is Life's Golden Age.

One Of The Easiest Forms Of Pretense To Break Down Is The Pretense Of Enthusiasm For Exotic Foods. Just Bring On The Exotic Foods.