No parent can be a philanthropist. He has seen the monkey in the girl— The Moro, stiff-armed for a branch. His wife, rudely, explained Sibyl’s

First two noises: “Whea mah foo?” And “I got rights!” Real royalty, As kindly hand to the incompetent, Is kind of god indeed; suum cuique

Is its brand; every other passion Is foreign to the crown. And none Past love of man, “a clever servant,” Untended trap that traps on still.

Whereas the parent, as first governor, Does his graduate work in ontology. Cladistics is fate. Infertility, fortune. All the quadrumana deserve a firm hand.