We Must Scrunch Or Be Scrunched.

There Is Something In Sickness That Breaks Down The Pride Of Manhood.

Hallo! A Great Deal Of Steam! The Pudding Was Out Of The Copper. A Smell Like A Washing-day! That Was The Cloth. A Smell Like An Eating-house And A Pastrycook's Next Door To Each Other, With A Laundress's Next Door To That. That Was The Pudding.

Don't Be Afraid! We Won't Make An Author Of You, While There's An Honest Trade To Be Learnt, Or Brick-making To Turn To.

We Need Be Careful How We Deal With Those About Us, When Every Death Carries To Some Small Circle Of Survivors, Thoughts Of So Much Omitted, And So Little Done- Of So Many Things Forgotten, And So Many More Which Might Have Been Repaired! There Is No Remorse So Deep As That Which Is Unavailing; If We Would Be Spared Its Tortures, Let Us Remember This, In Time.

For Your Popular Rumour, Unlike The Rolling Stone Of The Proverb, Is One Which Gathers A Deal Of Moss In Its Wanderings Up And Down.