Firmly believing all this, abjuring all atom-pickers,
slab furniture, and woodchuck literature—save only the immortal verse:
“And there the wooden-chuck doth tread;
While from the oak trees’ tops
The red, red squirrel on thy head
The frequent acorn drops.”
Abjuring, as I say, dinkiness in all its forms, we may still hope that those cleanly and respectable spinsters, the Sister Arts, will continue throughout the ages, rocking and drinking tea unterrified by the million-tongued clamor in the back yard and below stairs, where thumb and forefinger continue the question demanded by intellectual exhaustion: “L’arr! Kesker say l’arr?”
