A Contented Spirit Is The Sweetness Of

Some People Are Nobody's Enemies But Their Own

I Wear The Chains I Forged In Life.

They Whirled Past The Dark Trees, As Feathers Would Be Swept Before A Hurricane. Houses, Gates, Churches, Hay-stacks, Objects Of Every Kind They Shot By, With A Velocity And Noise Like Roaring Waters Suddenly Let Loose. Still The Noise Of Pursuit Grew Louder, And Still My Uncle Could Hear The Young Lady Wildly Screaming, "faster! Faster!"

Nothing Of What Is Nobly Done Is Ever Lost.

He Appeared To Enjoy Beyond Everything The Sound Of His Own Voice. I Couldn't Wonder At That, For It Was Mellow And Full And Gave Great Importance To Every Word He Uttered. He Listened To Himself With Obvious Satisfaction And Sometimes Gently Beat Time To His Own Music With His Head Or Rounded A Sentence With His Hand.