I AM rarely failed by my revered contem: porary's Pet phifésopher. When the Road of Life is dreary and bare, I can usually rely on him to pop round a corner and lead me—as it were—to refreshing clumps of Old Man's Boot and Ploughman's Nose whose simple, unaffected beauty makes me cry and cry and cry with joy.
This time I am disappointed.
After announcing that he is à bachelor~but not proud of if—he says winningly: "I would give more than half my ifücomie to be able to cast aside fear and merge my personality in that of the mother of my son....if I could only be sure that there would be a chalice Gf lasting happiness for both of us."
But he does not say what his income is.
He does not say to whom he would give halt of it.
And hoe has his fingers crossed anyhow, By reserving the right to be uncertain of lasting happiness.
I am sorry, but I think that, this time, he is being rather a little tease.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.