I know why a barber in a country town is always learning to play
on the guitar and I know why a man with an emotional Adam's apple
always wears an open front collar. I know these things, but am
debarred from telling them by reason of a solemn oath. But I have
not yet been able to discover why every dentist keeps a canary in
his office. Nor do I know why it is, just as you settle your neck
back on a head rest that's every bit as comfortable as an anvil,
and just as a dentist climbs into you as far as the arm pits and
begins probing at the bottom of a tooth which has roots extending
back behind your ears, like an old-fashioned pair of spectacles,
that the canary bird should wipe his nose on a cuttle bone and
dash into a melodious outburst of two hundred thousand twitters,
all of them being twitters of the same size, shape, and color.
For that matter, I don't even know what kind of an animal a cuttle
is, although I should say from the shape of his bone as used by
the canary instead of a pocket handkerchief, that he is circular
and flat and stands on edge only with the utmost difficulty.
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