On a warm Sunday, Kathlyn and Julius, poking around in Branton Hills'
suburbs, occasionally found an odd formation of fossilization,
installing it amidst our Hall of Natural History's displays. Shortly
following such an installation, a famous savant on volcanic activity
noting a most propitious rock formation amongst Julius' groups, thought
of cutting into it; for ordinary, most prosaic rocks _may_ contain
surprising information; and, upon arriving at Branton Hills' railway
station, ran across old Pat Ryan, czar of its trunk room.
"Ah, my man! I want to find a lapidary."
"A what?"
"It isn't a 'what,' it's a lapidary."
"Lapidary, is it? Lapidary, lapidary, lapi--lapi--la--. No, I----"