Scythe.
Good woman, some undesirable chemical change may take place in your fish. I would advise you to put some salt on them. I am a chemist.
Catharine.
The fish are dead; they cannot hear.
Scythe.
Mayor Whetstone, why do you not change the Eagle to the Hawkeye Review of Western Science?
Bluegrass.
Strip that proud bird of his plumage, and in less than seven revolutions of this magnificent star of ours he will have fewer followers than a vanquished rooster.
Whetstone.
Major, I cannot resist you. You are my true, my great and only editor. Give me your hand; let us be friends.