The marathon runner in the lead is light years ahead of the one at the back.

The depth of her misery was apparent to everyone.

The twelfth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me Twelve lords a-leaping, … Eight maids a-milking, Seven swans a-swimming, Six geese a-laying,

It was impertinently said by (leaden) penciller Willis, of Captain [Frederick] Marryat’s nautical novels, that they could scarcely be entitled to rank as works of literature, “being read chiefly about Wapping.” We need not dwell on the recent results of that choice bit of criticism, the readers of the Times newspaper having been treated to a belligerent correspondence thereanent; from which all rational folks have concluded, that, though the New Yorkian had plenty of disposable lead in his pencil, paper pellets sufficed for his pistol.