I think that the old party who in my childhood used to officiate at our hog-killings as First Royal fat-rendering mendicant must have had a presentiment of what Noah’s book was to contain, from the fact that she remarked to me once that my animadversiveness was remarkable for a child.

They seem to have a bumper crop of kindergarteners this year.

When merry milkmaids click the latch And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.

Two horses milled shackleless along the street, and a flower seller screamed her abuse as she returned crushed bouquets to her overturned basket.