A Man Does Not Plant A Tree

Stirling, Like A Huge Brooch, Clasps Highlands And Lowlands Together.

Love Is But The Discovery Of Ourselves In Others, And The Delight In The Recognition.

To Be Occasionally Quoted Is The Only Fame I Care For.

Looking Forward Into An Empty Year Strikes One With A Certain Awe, Because One Finds Therein No Recognition. The Years Behind Have A Friendly Aspect, And They Are Warmed By The Fires We Have Kindled, And All Their Echoes Are The Echoes Of Our Own Voices.

Pride's Chickens Have Bonny Feathers, But They Are An Expensive Brood To Rear. They Eat Up Everything, And Are Always Lean When Brought To Market.