we fall.

TAKING ADVICE

A forty-foot constrictor once was swallowing a goat, and having lots of
trouble, for the horns stuck in his throat. And then a warthog came
along, and said: "Oh, foolish snake! To swallow all your victuals
whole is surely a mistake. It puts your stomach out of plumb, your
liver out of whack, and gives you all the symptoms in the latest
almanac. If serpents for abundant health would have a fair renown,
they'll chew a mouthful half an hour before they take it down. Eat
slowly, with a tranquil mind and heart serene beneath, and always use a
finger bowl, and always pick your teeth. I'm reading up Woods
Hutchinson and Fletcher and those guys, and following the rules they
make, which are extremely wise, and oh, it pains me to the quick, and
jars my shrinking soul, to see a foolish snake like you absorbing
dinners whole!"

The serpent got his dinner down, with whiskers, horns and feet, then
slept three weeks; then looked around for something more to eat. And,
having killed a jabberwock, and found it fat and nice, he thought he'd
eat according to the warthog's sage advice.

Ah, never more that snake is seen upon his native heath! The little
serpents tell the tale of how he starved to death!

Moral:

The counsel of the great may help the man next door, 'tis true, and yet
turn out to be a frost when followed up by you.

POST-MORTEM INDUSTRY

You've heard of Richard Randle Rox? He died; they put him in a box,
and lowered him into a grave, and said: "He'll surely now behave."

For years this fertile Richard penned books, rhymes and essays without
end. His helpful, moral dope was seen in every uplift magazine, and
people used to wonder how the wheels within that bulging brow produced
such countless bales of thought, such wondrous wealth of tomyrot; and
folks chewed cloves and cotton waste to try to take away the taste.

At last he died before his time--killed off by an ingrowing rhyme. The
mourners laid him on his pall, his three assorted names and all, and
said: "Doggone him! Now he'll stop this thing of writing helpful
slop." He got the finest grave in town, and marble things to hold him
down.

Long years have passed since R. R. Rox was placed in silver-mounted
box; and does he rest in peace? Instead, he's working harder now he's
dead. New books are coming from his pen until the chastened sons of
men look round, their eyelids red with grief--look round, imploring