Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth;<br />whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul;<br />whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses,<br />and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet;<br />and especially when my hypos get such an upper hand of me,<br />that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off-<br />then, I account it high time to get to a bookstore as soon as I can.<br />That is my substitute for the pistol and ball.