In an instant she had "landed" him over the head with a long narrow wooden box containing, one supposes, pencils and pens.

He must have been a hard-headed youngster, the sound of the compact echoed through the valley.

I met her again on my way back.
"Hat much damaged ?" I inquired.
"Oh, no," she answered, smiling; "besides, it was only an old hat.

I've got a better one for Sundays." I often feel philosophical myself; generally over a good cigar after a satisfactory dinner.

At such times I open my Marcus Aurelius, my pocket Epicurus, my translation of Plato's "Republic." At such times I agree with them.