Slowly and with persistence he eats away at the big steak, gobbles up the asparagus, its butter & salt & root taste, drinks at a glass of red wine, and carefully taking his time, mops up the gravy with bread— The top of the café filtre is
"The younger brother roasted a breast of Pishiboro's elephant wife and handed Pishiboro some, which he presently ate. Then the younger brother said in a voice full of scorn. 'Oh you fool. You lazy man. You were married to meat and you thought it was a wife.'" FROM A MYTH OF THE BUSHMEN
I grow old under an intensity Of questioning looks. Nonsense, I try to say, I cannot teach you children How to live.—If not you, who will? Cries one of them aloud, grasping my gilded Frame till the world sways. If not you, who will? Between their visits the table, its arrangement Of Bible, fern and Paisley, all past change,
A little girl made of sugar and spice and everything nice was eaten by someone with a sweet tooth the size of an elephant’s tusk. Ah, he said, this darn tooth, it’s driving me nuts.
Then another voice is heard. It’s the little girl’s father who says, have you seen a little girl made of sugar and spice and everything nice?--Incidentally, what’s that thing sticking out of your mouth like an elephant’s tusk? My sweet tooth, and it’s really driving me nuts. You ought to see a dentist. But he might want to pull it, and I don’t like people pulling at me. If they want to pull they should pull at their own pullables. So true, said the little girl’s father, people should pull at their own pullables and let other people's pullables alone. But still, he asked again, I wonder if you’ve seen a little girl made of sugar and spice and everything nice?
STUDY IN WHITES Wax-white— Floor, ceiling, walls. Ivory shadows Over the pavement Polished to cream surfaces By constant sweeping. The big room is coloured like the petals
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