And Still I Stood Looking At The

I Cannot Help It; Reason Has Nothing To Do With It; I Love Her Against Reason-but Who Would As Soon Love Me For My Own Sake, As She Would Love The Beggar At The Corner.

The Aim Of Talk Should Be Like The Aim Of A Flying Arrow -- To Hit The Mark; But To This End There Must Be A Mark To Hit, That Is, There Must Be A Listener.

There Was A Gay Fiction Among Us That We Were Constantly Enjoying Ourselves, And A Skeleton Truth That We Never Did. To The Best Of My Belief, Our Case Was In The Last Respect A Rather Common One.

Then, At The End Of Every Hand, Miss Bolo Would Inquire With A Dismal Countenance And Reproachful Sigh, Why Mr. Pickwick Had Not Returned That Diamond, Or Led The Club, Or Roughed The Spade, Or Finessed The Heart, Or Led Through The Honour, Or Brought Out The Ace, Or Played Up To The King, Or Some Such Thing; And In Reply To All These Grave Charges, Mr. Pickwick Would Be Wholly Unable To Plead Any Justification Whatever, Having By This Time Forgotten All About The Game.

Now I Am In The Garden At The Back . . . A Very Preserve Of Butterflies As I Remember It, With A High Fence, And A Gate . . . Where The Fruit Clusters On The Trees, Riper And Richer Than Fruit Has Ever Been Since, In Any Other Garden, And Where My Mother Gathers Some In A Basket While I Stand By, Bolting Furtive Gooseberries, And Trying To Look Unnerved.