The poet had been droning on at the party about his various sources of inspiration. “Yes, he told the young girl. “I’m at present collecting some of my better poems to be published posthumously.” “Lovely,” said the girl. “I’ll look forward to it.”
Harry came home from Sunday school and asked his mother, “Do people really come from dust?” “In a way said,” said his mother. “And do they go back to dust?” “Yes, in a way.” She replied. “Well, mother, I looked under my bed, and somebody’s either coming or going.”