A Garden, Sir, Wherein All Rainbows And

[at The End Of The Story, Its Main Character, Tom] Is Now A Great Man Of Science, And Can Plan Railroads, And Steam-engines, And Electric Telegraphs, And Rifled Guns, And So Forth; And Knows Everything About Everything, Except Why A Hen's Egg Don't Turn Into A Crocodile, And Two Or Three Other Little Things That No One Will Know Till The Coming Of The Cocqcigrues.

Being Forced To Work, And Forced To Do Your Best, Will Breed In You Temperance And Self-control, Diligence And Strength Of Will, Cheerfulness And Content, And A Hundred Virtues Which The Idle Will Never Know.

Music Has Been Called The Speech Of The Angels; I Will Go Farther And Call It The Speech Of God Himself.

Those Clouds Are Angels' Robes.

Have Charity; Have Patience; Have Mercy. Never Bring A Human Being, However Silly, Ignorant, Or Weak--above All, Any Little Child--to Shame And Confusion Of Face. Never By Petulance, By Suspicion, By Ridicule, Even By Selfish And Silly Haste--never, Above All, By Indulging In The Devilish Pleasure Of A Sneer--crush What Is Finest And Rouse Up What Is Coarsest In The Heart Of Any Fellow-creature.