If Mr. Einstein Doesn't Like The Natural

Next To An Old-fashioned Church Social, Or Possibly A Monster Bridge Party, There Is No Buzz Which Can Equal The Sibilant Buzz Ofa Matinée.

Sunday Morning May Be Cheery Enough, With Its Extra Cup Of Coffee And Litter Of Sunday Newspapers, But There Is Always Hanging Over It The Ominous Threat Of 3 P.m., When The Sun Gets Around To The Back Windows And Life Stops Dead In Its Tracks.

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.

What Is To Be Done With People Who Can't Read A Sunday Paper Without Messing It All Up?... Show Me A Sunday Paper Which Has Been Left In A Condition Fit Only For Kite Flying, And I Will Show You An Antisocial And Dangerous Character Who Has Left It That Way.

I Am More The Inspirational Type Of Speller. I Work On Hunches Rather Than Mere Facts, And The Result Is Sometimes Open To Criticism By Purists.