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It was on a certain Tuesday evening that one of the reporters came into the exchange editor's room and casually remarked: "I saw your anti-shaving friend, who sits at that desk, riding out to the suburbs on a car to-day. He was all crushed up and carried a bouquet of roses." "That settles it," cried the editorial writer to the exchange editor, with mock jubilation.
Peter's Brother, What hast thou in one hand? What hast i'th' to'ther? Heaven Gate Keys. We do not think that the poets of the anti-shaving movement have as yet succeeded in producing anything worthy to be set off against a series of spirited stanzas under the heading of "The Razor, a Poem," which we commend to the immediate and careful attention of the "Razor-strop Man."
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