Our Rural Mail Box
Skipper Bill: Accept my best wishes for the season, and may each festive day find you squatted ’round some board arrangement heaped with viands, digestible and otherwise; and may the platitudes, provoked by the year’s munificence and the fact that you’re alive, be salt to the root of the tree of good fellowship. And may the years to come endear you more to the thousands of American “Bohemians,” who recognize you now as a damn good fellow.
Even though the desert remain arid, and we are forced to sip from lips that burn, and betray, for inspiration, we’ll remain in the fight until old Mother Earth calls upon us for our quota of bone and flesh—dust. Yours for the bull-con, E. W. Welty.
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Ima Cumming: If, while going through the park at night, you should hear some maiden say, “Sweet, Daddy,” that doesn’t necessarily mean she’s talking to her father.
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Betty B. Good: Don’t complain that your confidence has been betrayed. The fault is your own for pouring unsafe talk into a leaky mind.