houses were original. On every floor were passages that seemed mere
copies from passages in other houses. They were all built on the same
hackneyed plan; cellars underneath, ground floor level with the
street, attic at the top. No originality anywhere!

So, likewise with the eggs. Every egg suggested reminiscences of
other eggs.

It was heartrending work.

The critics criticised all things. When a young couple fell in love,
they each, before thinking of marriage, called upon the critics for a
criticism of the other one.

Needless to say that, in the result, no marriage ever came of it.

"My dear young lady," the critics would say, after the inspection had
taken place, "I can discover nothing new whatever about the young man.
You would simply be wasting your time in marrying him."

Or, to the young man, it would be:

"Oh, dear, no! Nothing attractive about the girl at all. Who on
earth gave you that notion? Simply a lovely face and figure, angelic
disposition, beautiful mind, stanch heart, noble character. Why,
there must have been nearly a dozen such girls born into the world
since its creation. You would be only wasting your time loving her."

They criticised the birds for their hackneyed style of singing, and
the flowers for their hackneyed scents and colors. They complained of