Some one invented the telephone, And interrupted a nation's slumbers, Ringing wrong but similar numbers.
No man is greater than his respect for sleep.
People expect old men to die, They do not really mourn old men. Old men are different. People look At them with eyes that wonder when ... People watch with unshocked eyes; But the old men know when an old man dies.
The burnt child, urged by rankling ire, Can hardly wait to get back at the fire.
Neath tile or thatch That man is rich Who has a scratch For every itch.
How confusing the beams from memory's lamp are; One day a bachelor, the next a grampa. What is the secret of the trick? How did I get so old so quick?