The Worst Of All Listeners Is The

It Was One Of Those Hot, Silent Nights, When People Sit At Windows Listening For The Thunder Which They Know Will Shortly Break; When They Recall Dismal Tales Of Hurricanes And Earthquakes; And Of Lonely Travellers On Open Plains, And Lonely Ships At Sea, Struck By Lightning.

Never, Never, Before Heaven, Have I Thought Of You But As The Single, Bright, Pure, Blessed Recollection Of My Boyhood And My Youth. Never Have I From The First, And Never Shall I To The Last, Regard Your Part In My Life, But As Something Sacred, Never To Be Lightly Thought Of, Never To Be Esteemed Enough, Never, Until Death, To Be Forgotten.

... As Lonesome As A Kitten In A Wash-house Copper With The Lid On.

"why, I Don't Exactly Know About Perjury, My Dear Sir," Replied The Little Gentleman. "harsh Word, My Dear Sir, Very Harsh Word Indeed. It's A Legal Fiction, My Dear Sir, Nothing More."

And, Unlike The Celebrated Herd In The Poem, They Were Not Forty Children Conducting Themselves As One, But Every Child Was Conducting Itself Like Forty.