Cassidy is our six-year-old. She is our little cuddle bug and daddy's girl.

She was a fat, round little woman, richly apparelled in velvet and lace, […]; and the way she laughed, cackling like a hen, the way she talked to the waiters and the maid, […]—all these unexpected phenomena impelled one to hysterical mirth, and made one class her with such immortally ludicrous types as Ally Sloper, the Widow Twankey, or Miss Moucher.

Many more arguments, he says, all leading to the same conslusion, may be deduced from the general facts, known in the natural history of mountains; and, if the oreologist would trace back the progress of waste, till he come in sight of that original structure, of which the remains are still so vast, he perceives an immense mass of solid rock, naked and unshapely, as it first emerged from the deep, and incomparably greater than all that is now before him...

He had a close call when a truck ran a red light and almost hit him.