More Than Halfway Up The Pass Was A Spring With A Broken Drinking Glass, And Whether The Farmer Drank Or Not His Mare Was Sure To Observe The Spot By Cramping The Wheel On A Water-Bar, Turning Her Forehead With A Star, And Straining Her Ribs For A Monster Sigh; To Which The Farmer Would Make Reply, 'A Sigh For Every So Many Breath, And For Every So Many Sigh A Death. That's What I Always Tell My Wife Is The Multiplication Table Of Life.' The Saying May Be Ever So True; But It's Just The Kind Of A Thing That You Nor I, Nor Nobody Else May Say, Unless Our Purpose Is Doing Harm, And Then I Know Of No Better Way To Close A Road, Abandon A Farm, Reduce The Births Of The Human Race, And Bring Back Nature In People'S Place.