Why Then We Should Drop Into Poetry.

But You Were Always A Good Man Of Business, Jacob,' Faltered Scrooge, Who Now Began To Apply This To Himself. Business!' Cried The Ghost, Wringing Its Hands Again. "mankind Was My Business; Charity, Mercy, Forbearance, And Benevolence, Were, All, My Business. The Deals Of My Trade Were But A Drop Of Water In The Comprehensive Ocean Of My Business!

It's Over, And Can't Be Helped, And That's One Consolation, As They Always Say In Turkey, When They Cut The Wrong Man's Head Off.

Fog Everywhere. Fog Up The River Where It Flows Among Green Airs And Meadows; Fog Down The River, Where It Rolls Defiled Among The Tiers Of Shipping, And The Waterside Pollutions Of A Great (and Dirty) City.... Chance People On The Bridges Peeping Over The Parapets Into A Nether Sky Of Fog, With Fog All Round Them, As If They Were Up In A Balloon And Hanging In The Misty Clouds.

It Is A Silent, Shady Place, With A Paved Courtyard So Full Of Echoes, That Sometimes I Am Tempted To Believe That Faint Responses To The Noises Of Old Times Linger There Yet, And That These Ghosts Of Sound Haunt My Footsteps As I Pace It Up And Down.

"hope, You See, Wal'r," Said The Captain, Sagely, "hope. It's That As Animates You. Hope Is A Buoy, For Which You Overhaul Your Little Warbler, Sentimental Diwision, But Lord, My Lad, Like Any Other Buoy, It Only Floats; It Can't Be Steered Nowhere. Along With The Figure-head Of Hope,' Said The Captain, 'there's A Anchor; But What's The Good Of My Having A Anchor, If I Can't Find No Bottom To Let It Go In?"