Indoors or out, no one relaxes In March, that month of wind and taxes, The wind will presently disappear, The taxes last us all the year. - Ogden Nash

When smut's to be smitten Smoot will smite For G-d, for country, And Fahrenheit.

"Baclli swarm within my portals

Such as ne'r conceived by mortals,

But, bred by scientists,

Wise and hoary in some Olympian laboratory.

Bacteria as large as mice

With feet of fire and heads of ice,

Who never interrupt for slumber

Their stomping, elephantine rumba.

( From the poem — - " The Common Cold " )"

Naturally I am not pointing a finger at me,
But I must admit that I find Mr. Ickes or any other
speaker far more convincing when I agree with
him than when I disagree.