lost my balance the lawn-mower would leap up in the air and fall on
my wish-bone.

When loving hands finally pulled us apart I was two doors and a
half below unconsciousness, while the lawnmower had recovered its
second wind and was wagging its tail with excitement.

After waiting for about ten minutes for me to come back in the
ring, the lawn-mower got impatient and began to bark at me in
Yiddish, so I decided that our lawn could grow whiskers like a
Populist farmer and be hanged to it.

Another splendid bit of local color in the life of some commuters
is the tunnel which runs from Forty-second Street up as far as One
Hundred and Fifty in the shade.

A ride through this tunnel on a hot day will put you over on Woosey
Avenue quicker than a No. 9 pill in Hop Lee's smoke factory.

In order to get out to Ruraldene I have to use the tunnel, and
every time I use it it leaves something which looks like the mark
of Cain across my brow.

The first day I went through that tunnel will always remain one of
my hottest memories.

I lost nine pounds of solid flesh somewhere between my shoulder
blade and Seventy-ninth Street.

The sensation is the same as a Bad Man's hereafter, including the