The Journal of a Disappointed Man

"A matter of temperament, I suppose," I reflected, in cold detachment. "You see, I belong to the raw meat school. You prefer life cooked for you in a book. You prefer the confectioner's shop to cutting down the wheat with your own scythe." July 26. The B.M. is a ghastly hole. They will give me none of the apparatus I require. If you ask the Trustees for a thousand pounds for the propagation of the Gospel in foreign parts they say, "Yes." If you ask for twenty pounds for a new microscope they say, "No, but we'll cut off your nose with a big pair of scissors." July 27. To a pedantic prosy little old maid who was working in my room this morning, I exclaimed,-- "I'd sooner make a good dissection than go to a Lord Mayor's Banquet. Turtle Soup ain't in it." She was uninspired, and said, "Oom," and went on pinning insects. Then more brightly, and with great punctilio in the pronunciation of her words, having cleared her throat and drawn herself up with great deliberation to deliver herself of a remark, she volunteered,-- "I whish I had nevah taken up such a brittle grooop as the Stones (Stoneflies). One dare not loook at a Stone." Poor dear little old maid. This was my turn to say "Oom." "Pretty dismal work," I added ambiguously. Then with malice aforethought I whistled a Harry Lauder tune, asked her if she had ever heard Willie Solar sing, "You made me love you," and then absent-mindedly and in succession inquired,--