Erosion, Desertification, And Pollution Have Become Our

By Neglecting Our Garden, We Are Storing Up For Ourselves, In The Not Very Distant Future, A World Catastrophe As Bad As Any Atomic War, And We Are Doing It With All The Bland Complacency Of An Idiot Child Chopping Up A Rembrandt With A Pair Of Scissors.

‎'all We Need Is A Book,' Roared Leslie; 'don't Panic, Hit 'em With A Book.

Among The Myrtles The Mantids Moved, Lightly, Carefully, Swaying Slightly, The Quintessence Of Evil. They Were Lank And Green, With Chinless Faces And Monstrous Globular Eyes, Frosty Gold, With An Expression Of Intense, Predatory Madness In Them. The Crooked Arms, With Their Fringes Of Sharp Teeth, Would Be Raised In Mock Supplication To The Insect World, So Humble, So Fervent, Trembling Slightly When A Butterfly Flew Too Close.

Each Day Had A Tranquility A Timelessness About It So That You Wished It Would Never End. But Then The Dark Skin Of The Night Would Peel Off And There Would Be A Fresh Day Waiting For Us Glossy And Colorful As A Child's Transfer And With The Same Tinge Of Unreality.

We Stared At The Odd Garment And Wondered What It Was For. 'what Is It?' Asked Larry At Length. 'it's A Bathing Costume, Of Course,' Said Mother. 'what On Earth Did You Think It Was?' 'it Looks Like A Badly Skinned Whale,' Said Larry, Peering At It Closely.