Streets Full Of Water. Please Advise.

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.

A Child Of Three Cannot Raise Its Chubby Fist To Its Mouth To Remove A Piece Of Carpet Which It Is Through Eating, Without Being Made The Subject Of A Psychological Seminar Of Child-welfare Experts, And Written Up, Along With Five Hundred Other Children Of Three Who Have Put Their Hands To Their Mouths For The Same Reason.

There Is Probably No More Obnoxious Class Of Citizen, Taken End For End, Than The Returning Vacationist.

I Once Heard Of A Murderer Who Propped His Two Victims Up Against A Chess Board In Sporting Attitudes And Was Able To Get As Far As Seattle Before His Crime Was Discovered.

We Are Constantly Being Surprised That People Did Things Well Before We Were Born. We Are Constantly Remarking On The Fact That Things Are Done Well By People Other Than Ourselves. "the Japanese Are A Remarkable Little People," We Say, As If We Were Doing Them A Favor. "he Is An Arab, But You Ought To Hear Him Play The Zither." Why "but"?