A House Is Not A Home Until

They Were Maps That Lived, Maps That One Could Study, Frown Over, And Add To; Maps, In Short, That Really Meant Something.

Right In The Hart Of The Africn Jungel A Small Wite Man Lives. Now There Is One Extraordinary Fact About Him That He Is The Frind Of All Animals.

By Neglecting Our Garden, We Are Storing Up For Ourselves, In The Not Very Distant Future, A World Catastrophe As Bad As Any Atomic War, And We Are Doing It With All The Bland Complacency Of An Idiot Child Chopping Up A Rembrandt With A Pair Of Scissors.

Why Keep In Touch With Them? That's What I Want To Know,' Asked Larry Despairingly. 'what Satisfaction Does It Give You? They're All Either Fossilized Or Mental.' 'indeed, They're Not Mental,' Said Mother Indignantly. 'nonsense, Mother... Look At Aunt Bertha, Keeping Flocks Of Imaginary Cats... And There's Great-uncle Patrick, Who Wanders About Nude And Tells Complete Strangers How He Killed Whales With A Penknife...they're All Bats.

Each Day Had A Tranquility A Timelessness About It So That You Wished It Would Never End. But Then The Dark Skin Of The Night Would Peel Off And There Would Be A Fresh Day Waiting For Us Glossy And Colorful As A Child's Transfer And With The Same Tinge Of Unreality.