Never Mind, Dear, We're All Made The

Criticism And Bolshevism Have One Thing In Common. They Both Seek To Pull Down That Which They Could Never Build.

An Infant Prodigy Of Nine Is Shoved Upon The Stage In White. She Starts Off In A Dismal Whine About A Dark And Stormy Night, A Burglar, Whose Heart Is True, Despite His Wicked-looking Face, Who Puts The Little Child In Doom, To Save Her Mamma's Jewel Case. This May Bring Tears To Every Eye; It Does Not Set My Heart On Fire. I'd Like To Stand Serenely By And Watch That Horrid Child Expire.

My Life Really Has Been One Long Extravaganza.

I Have Always Paid Income Tax. I Object Only When It Reaches A Stage When I Am Threatened With Having Nothing Left For My Old Age - Which Is Due To Start Next Tuesday Or Wednesday.

I Do Not Intend To Let Myself Down More Than I Can Possibly Help, And I Find That The Fewer Illusions I Have About Myself Or The World Around Me, The Better Company I Am For Myself.