“If there is such a thing as a cracker-barrel philosopher left in our century, Mr. Golden has earned the title,” declared the New York Times.

Copper burns in chlorine.

The Chimney Campanula, as it used to be called by my old gardeneress,—and a very appropriate name it is indeed for it,—is indicative of its character.

This bleak circle of asphalt has been patched and repatched, and looks it.