Babbs, after many days of glumming in his Purina Chow redoubt, strolls over, lewding out, “Hi, Je-e-e-ed!” to Kesey's three-year-old son.

After a dreadful performance in the opening 45 minutes, they upped their game after the break...

The Indians had not the art of making bread. Their boiled their corn … or they ate the parched kernels whole; or with a stone pestle and a wooden mortar they broke them up into meal, which, moistened with water into a paste, they called nookhik.¹ [Footnote 1: Nookhik, meal, (Eliot's Indian Bible,) was corrupted by the English into nocake.]]

No; nonsense, Naumann! English ladies are not at everybody’s service as models. And you want to express too much with your painting. You would only have made a better or worse portrait with a background which every connoisseur would give a different reason for or against.