Mrs. Benham: “You used to say that I was the apple of your eye.”
Benham: “Well, what of it?”
Mrs. Benham: “Nothing; except that you don’t seem to care so much for
fruit as you once did.”
* * * * *
There was a girl in her own boudoir,
And she was tall and handsome;
And every time the wind blew hard,
It blew right through her transom.
* * * * *