Читать книгу The So-called Human Race - Bert Leston Taylor - Страница 23

My lady hath a garden fair,

Wherein she whiles her hours:

She chides me that I do not share

Her rage for springing flowers.

I tell her I’ve a garden, too,

Wherein I have to toil—

The kind that Epicurus knew,

If not so good a soil.

[p 22] And I must till my patch with care,

And watch its daily needs;

For lacking water, sun, and air,

The place would run to weeds.

In this the garden of the mind,

My flowers are all too few;

Yet am I well content to find

A modest bloom or two.

My lady hath a garden fair,

Or will when buds are blown:

I’ve but a blossom here and there—

Poor posies, but mine own.

“Very well, here is a constructive criticism,” declared Col. Roosevelt, tossing another grenade into the administration trenches. The Colonel is our favorite constructive critic. After he has finished a bit of construction it takes an hour for the dust to settle.

Judgment day will be a complete performance for the dramatic critics. They will be able to stay for the last act.

Why is it that when a woman takes the measurements for a screen door she thinks she has to allow a couple of inches to turn in?

“Woman Lights 103 Candles With One Match.”

[p 23] Huh! Helen, with one match, lit the topless towers of Ilium.

It may be—nay, it is—ungallant so to say, but—— Well, have you, in glancing over the beauty contest exhibits, observed a face that would launch a thousand ships? Or five hundred?

“Learn to Speak on Your Feet,” advertises a university extension. We believe we could tell all we know about ours in five hundred words.