The other day I chanced to meet </br> An angry man upon the street— </br> A man of wrath, a man of war, </br> A man who truculently bore </br> Over h… - Phyllis McGinley

Gossip isn’t scandal and it’s not merely malicious. It’s chatter about the human race by lovers of the same.

Ah, snug lie those that slumber </br> Beneath Conviction’s roof. </br> Their floors are sturdy lumber, </br> Their windows weatherproof. </br> But I sleep cold forever, </br> And cold sleep all my kind, </br> For I was born to shiver </br> In the draft from an open mind.

The kitchen will not come into its own again until it ceases to be a status symbol and becomes again a workshop. It may be pastel. It may be ginghamed as to curtains and shining with copper like a picture in a woman's magazine. But you and I will know it chiefly by its fragrances and its clutter. At the back of the stove will sit a soup kettle, gently bubbling, one into which every day are popped leftover bones and vegetables to make stock for sauces or soup for the family. Carrots and leeks will sprawl on counters, greens in a basket. There will be something sweet-smelling twirling in a bowl and something savory baking in the oven. Cabinet doors will gape ajar and colored surfaces are likely to be littered with salt and pepper and flour and herbs and cheesecloth and pot holders and long-handled forks. It won't be neat. It won't even look efficient. but when you enter it you will feel the pulse of life throbbing from every corner. The heart of the home will have begun once again to beat.