To find a man's true character, play golf with him.

Some minds are like soup in a poor restaurant—better left unstirred.

The least thing upset him on the links. He missed short putts because of the uproar of the butterflies in the adjoining meadows.

Now, I'm a mixer. I can't help it. It's my nature. I like men. I like the taste of their boots, the smell of their legs, and the sound of their voices. It may be weak of me, but a man has only to speak to me, and a sort of thrill goes down my spine and sets my tail wagging.

A little bit added to what you've already got gives you a little bit more.

Bicky rocked, like a jelly in a high wind.

Cats, as a class, have never completely got over the snootiness caused by the fact that in ancient Egypt they were worshipped as gods. This makes them prone to set themselves up as critics and censors of the frail and erring human beings whose lot they share.