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

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.

“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.