A Library Is But The Soul's Burying

There Ought To Be Such An Atmosphere In Every Christian Church That A Man Going There And Sitting Two Hours Should Take The Contagion Of Heaven, And Carry Home A Fire To Kindle The Altar Whence He Came.

Every City Should Make The Common School So Rich, So Large, So Ample, So Beautiful In Its Endowments, And So Fruitful In Its Results, That A Private School Will Not Be Able To Live Under The Drip Of It.

The Sun Does Not Shine For A Few Trees, And Flowers, But For The Wide World's Joy. The Lonely Pine On The Mountain-top Waves Its Sombre Boughs And Cries, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Little Meadow Violet Lifts Its Cup Of Blue, And Whispers With Its Perfumed Breath, 'thou Art My Sun.' And The Grain In A Thousand Fields Rustles In The Wind, And Makes Answer, 'thou Art My Sun.' So God Sits Effulgent In Heaven, Not For A Favored Few, But For The Universe Of Life; And There Is No Creature So Poor Or So Low That He May Not Look Up With Childish Confidence And Say, 'my Father, Thou Art Mine.

No Man Rides So High And In Such Good Company As The Man That Allies Himself To A Truth.

The More Sincere We Are In Our Belief, As A Rule, The Less Demonstrative We Are.