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Show giMiiiiiHuiiiiiniiinniiiiuiiiiiiniinuuiiuuiiHNinNicM j The Moving Finger j The moving finger writes, and having writ Moves on: nor all your piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it." Omar Khayyam A. city council. I get home. There I hunt the kids, the bicycle, the paper pa-per Why does the wind blow every time I leave town? the dog, and the shopping list I couldn't find in my purse. No wonder; here it is in the refrigerator, and my driver's license too ... I remember, remem-ber, now; I just put them down, on the butter, a minute, and I just forgot them I guess . . . At this point, I race to town for groceries with which to feed my patient, half-starved, long-suffering family. I am still Hunting; this time for something quick to cook, that they'll eat. While on the prowl what do I see in Crandall's window? win-dow? Or Payzant's? Or Penney's? Or ENNYDAMN WINDOW IN TOWN? You guessed it THE SAME LITTLE NUMBER I BOUGHT IN THE CITY. Only this one is the right size, and a lovely color, and $5 less . . . The last item on my hunt is a good reason not to shoot myself; and it's quite a hunt, Gentle Readers, quite a hunt! Well stick around; next week, I'll tell you about my operation. They cut me from here to HERE, my dear, and well, STICK AROUND! Oh yes I forgot to tell you what the Mayor says to his wife every night when they go to bed. I shouldn't, but I will. HE SAYS "Goodnight, Dear." I just got back from Salt Lake on one of my infrequent Hunting Trips. Differing from the average female in some very few respects, I do not object to nor grouse about my husband's annual forays into the forest in search of venison on which to feed his squaw. Why? Because Be-cause I, myself, enjoy that sort of thing and seriously. I do; but that's another story, and will keep this column going another week, thank heaven. My Hunting Trips are quite famous, fam-ous, in certain circles; and probably prob-ably all other women go on them, too, with variations. They begin, like the men's hunting trips, with What to wear. No simple ensemble of red cap, high shoes, faded pink shirt and a pair of last year's pants will do; though I must admit that the latter item is no novelty to me. No, indeed; it goes like this: I will wear my green sun dress, ' with the jacket. Fine. And my white high-heels, and white handbag, hand-bag, and pearls. Bedecked in the first two items, I discover that one shoe has the buckle off. If I resort to black shoes. I find I have no black bag suitable for summer. Blue shoes? Hey, stupid, your dress is GREEN. Oh yes . . . Well, then; red shoes. Ha! Christmas Christ-mas in July . . . Well. Hell. I'll wear my blue suit; and my blue shoes; and my blue bag; and my black eye, and my red nose, and . . . Now I'm getting hysterical. Why? The blue suit is at the cleaners. Oh . . Well, then, Old Faithful. The Little Black Dress; , the one that Vogue says no woman wo-man should be without. (How do I know? I read it at the beauty shop, like the rest of you.) Oh, goody, I'm almost ready, and only an hour late. Zipping up the L. B. D. with one hand, I grab my handbag with the other, and run for the car, the children following me out with my shoes, gloves, driver's license, and the check so generously bestowed by my mate . . . And not until I arrive in the City do I discover that he hasn't signed it. (This, junior, is what is meant by a check-mate.) My Hunting Hun-ting Trip is now well under way . . From here on out, it goes like this: I hunt for a place to park, a place to eat, a place to phone, a place to well, a PLACE. 'Then I hunt a saleslady, a size 14, a size larger, a decent color, and a price tag with two digits, each well under un-der 2. Then I hunt the package I left in that other store, my car, the police station, my driver's license. li-cense. It is NOT my telephone bill; of all the stupid, insulting, half-baked half-baked cops I ever . . . Er, ah, it DOES seem to be my telephone bill doesn't it? Ha, ha, ha, one of the kiddies' little jokes . . . I'll break their little necks, that's what I'll do. If I ever get out of jail. . . Finally, through the grace of God and a wealthy friend on the |