avarice is especially, I suppose, a disease of the imagination.
It is remarkable what fine hands men of genius write, even when they are as awkward in all other uses of the hand as a cow with a musket.
Dull November brings the blast, Then the leaves are whirling fast.
January brings the snow, makes our feet and fingers glow.
Chill December brings the sleet, Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.
Much waste of words and of thought too would be avoided if disputants would always begin with a clear statement of the question, and not proceed to argue till they had agreed upon what it was that they were arguing about.