Monday's child is fair of face.

With the very long winter, permafrozen soil, and low evaporation, the soil is waterlogged.

BOOM!, he can't walk, can't talk, he's in a ward at a state institution with thirty retarded bizarros, many of them bizzare […]

He reflects upon them as “those squeeze-farthings, and hoard-penny ignoramous Doctors, with several great personages, who found excuses for not accepting my books; or, they would receive them, but give nothing for them; or else deny they had them, or remembered any thing of them; and so gave me nothing for my last present of books, though they kept them gratis et ingratiis.