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Pause and Consider: according to a recent study by the National Safety Council, it's not kitchen, as is generally supposed, that's the scene of the most home accidents. The bedroom is probably because of the bedroom's easy-to-slip-on combination of bare floors and scatter rugs, to say nothing of bare feet — and those heelless, crippling contraptions women put on their feet and call, for reasons known only to their kind, "mules". Anyway, take care — twenty-five percent of fatal home accidents take place in bedrooms, ten per cent in kitchens, seven percent on inside stairways, and eighteen percent in the yard, on the porch and outside stairways combined. Why not make a safety check of those places right now?
John Gay Said It: "When we risk no contradiction, it prompts the tongue to deal in fiction."
NOVEMBER . . . which is, the Old Farmer's Almanac reminds us, the month of Indian Summer — in fact, they pin down the opening date of that wonderful season as the 13th. (They throw cold water on this pleasant prospect, however, by warning that it's also not too late for hurricanes nor too early for killing frosts, and admonish us to get to our potato digging and the harvesting of late apples. Wish I had some potatoes to dig and/or some apples to harvest, said he wistfully.) Whether or not we get an Indian Summer this year, we'll indisputably have Thanksgiving come the 23rd.
On the subject of Thanksgiving dinners, I belong to the stuff-till-you-burst school of thought. None of your larks'-tongues-underglass for me on that eatingest of holidays. What was good enough for Grandpa is good enough for me on Thanksgiving, and Grandpa didn't think dinner on that day was worth the powder to blow it where it ought to be blown unless the menu included turkey and goose, four or five kinds of vegetables, mince pie with hard sauce and pumpkin pie with whipped cream — man-sized portions of both, sending up heavenly smells. I just noticed it's an hour till dinner — excuse me while I go see what's in the cookie jar.
INCIDENTAL INTELLIGENCE DEPT.— In the old days of France, the people had a way of nick-naming their kings — sometimes with considerable lack of tact, although the old boys doubtless brought it on themselves. For instance Pepin, son of Charles Martel, was called The Short. After him came a great rash of Charleses, Louises and Phillips, all sub-titled in one way or another by their subjects. Take the Charleses, for instance, you'll find Charles the Bald, the Gross, the Fair, the Wise, the Beloved, the Victorious and the Affable — a pretty good set of joes, these Charleses, one would gather. Now the Louises: the Just and the Great don't sound too bad, but on the other hand there were the Headstrong and the Cruel, with the Lion and the Gross in the damned-with-faintpraise middle. As for the Phillips, we have the Fair, the Hardy, the Fair (they were getting in a rut) and the Tall.
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