A Man Has A Right To Picture

No Coffee Can Be Good In The Mouth That Does Not First Send A Sweet Offering Of Odor To The Nostrils.

October Is The Opal Month Of The Year. It Is The Month Of Glory, Of Ripeness. It Is The Picture-month.

The Great Men Of Earth Are The Shadow Men, Who, Having Lived And Died, Now Live Again And Forever Through Their Undying Thoughts. Thus Living, Though Their Footfalls Are Heard No More, Their Voices Are Louder Than The Thunder, And Unceasing As The Flow Of Tides Or Air.

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.

There Was Never A Person Who Did Anything Worth Doing That He Did Not Receive More Than He Gave.