Life, lift the full goblet--away with all sorrow-- The circle of friendship what freedom would sever? To-day is our own, and a fig for to-morrow-- Here's to the Fourth and our country forever.

The rich man has his motorcar, His country and his town estate, He smokes a fifty-cent cigar And jeers at Fate. He frivols through the livelong day, He knows not Poverty, her pinch. His lot seems light, his heart seems gay; He has a cinch. Yet though my lamp burns low and dim, Though I must slave for livelihood- Think you that I would change with him? You bet I would!

And of all glad words of prose or rhyme, The gladdest are Act while there yet is time

Day after day, night after night, my life at home is far from bright, but even home has more variety, than I can find in cafe society.

Nothing is more responsible for the good old days than a bad memory.

When the political columnists say 'Every thinking man' they mean themselves, and when candidates appeal to 'Every intelligent voter' they mean everybody who is going to vote for them

There must be a day or two in a man's life when he is the precise age for something important.