I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

Oh, for the good old days when people would stop Christmas shopping when they ran out of money.

When you care enough to send the very best!

Worth a guinea a box.

Once again, we come to the Holiday Season, a deeply religious time that each of us observes, in his own way, by going to the mall of his choice.