And then I'd go to Grocer
Gregg, and mutter as I went; "I'll take that merchant down a peg, and
in him make a dent." He'd spring the same old platitudes when I had
reached his den: "That vampire who delivers goods has balled things up
again."

Apologies are good enough, excuses are the same; but forty-seven are
enough to tire one of that game. It's better far to shun mistakes, and
do things right at first, than to explain your dizzy breaks till your
suspenders burst.

EASY MORALITY

When things are moving slick as grease, it's easy to be moral then, to
wear a gentle smile of peace, and talk about good will to men. Such
virtue doesn't greatly weigh, in making up the books of life; the man
who cheerful is and gay, in times of sorrow and of strife, is better
worth a word of praise, than all the gents of smiling mien, who swear
in forty different ways when life has ceased to be serene. This
morning, as I ambled down, a neighbor fell (the walk was slick) and
slid half-way across the town, and landed on a pile of brick. He slid
along at such a rate the ice was melted as he went; his shins were
barked, and on his pate there was a large unsightly dent. And when
he'd breath enough to talk, he didn't cave around and swear, or blank
the blanked old icy walk; he merely cried: "Well, I declare!"

THE CRITIC

Some years ago I wrote a book, and no one read it save myself; it
occupies a dusty nook, all sad and lonesome, on the shelf. And having
found I couldn't write such stories as would please the mob, I sternly
said, "I'll wreak my spite on those who can hold down the job." So now
I sit in gloomy state and roast an author every day, and show he's a
misguided skate who should be busy baling hay. The people read me as I
cook my victims, and exclaim with glee, "If he would only write a book,
oh where would Scott and Dickens be?"

I used to think that I could sing, but when a few sweet trills I'd
shed, the people would arise and fling dead cats and cabbage at my
head. Then, realizing that my throat was modeled on the foghorn plan,
I said, "If I can't sing a note, I'll surely roast the folks who can!"
I go to concerts and look wise, and shudder as in misery; in vain the
prima donna tries to win approving smiles from me; in vain the tenor or
the bass, to gain from me admiring looks, pours floods of music through
his face--I squirm as though on tenderhooks. And people watch my
curves and sigh; "He has it all