The Stuff that Screams are Made Of.
But enough of this eye-browsing; let us look physiology in the face—peer into its open countenance, in fact; for is not the mouth the gateway of gastronomy and a masticatory mausoleum? Life is a grind, so let's get to the grinders; truly, “Relinquish hope all ye who enter here” is an apt epitaph for every forkful of fodder which greets the grinders; peradventure, dear reader, this is a painful subject, but putting all
“Blue Bonnets over the Border.”
feeling aside and speaking with painless abstraction, do you not often stand aghast at the awful potentialities of the molar system? Does it not suggest to you “The stuff that Screams
are made of?” But perhaps you are one of those fearless folk with heart of oak and jaws of jarrah who have helped to found the Empire on corned beef and carrots; one of those men of stainless steel and ferro-concrete courage, who laugh in the face of forceps and giggle at gas—one of those sunny characters who give the whole world sunstroke.