There Is A Wisdom Of The Head,

You Can't Make A Head And Brains Out Of A Brass Knob With Nothing In It. You Couldn't Do It When Your Uncle George Was Living Much Less When He's Dead.

Papa, Potatoes, Poultry, Prunes And Prism, Are All Very Good Words For The Lips.

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.

I Do Not Know The American Gentleman, God Forgive Me For Putting Two Such Words Together.

Morning Drew On Apace. The Air Became More Sharp And Piercing, As Its First Dull Hue: The Death Of Night, Rather Than The Birth Of Day: Glimmered Faintly In The Sky. The Objects Which Had Looked Dim And Terrible In The Darkness, Grew More And More Defined, And Gradually Resolved Into Their Familiar Shapes. The Rain Came Down, Thick And Fast; And Pattered, Noisily, Among The Leafless Bushes.