A Man's Perfection Is His Work.

All Work, Even Cotton-spinning, Is Noble; Work Is Alone Noble.

In The Poorest Cottage Are Books: Is One Book, Wherein For Several Thousands Of Years The Spirit Of Man Has Found Light, And Nourishment, And An Interpreting Response To Whatever Is Deepest In Him.

The Glory Of A Workman, Still More Of A Master Workman, That He Does His Work Well, Ought To Be His Most Precious Possession; Like The Honor Of A Soldier, Dearer To Him Than Life.

Laughter Is One Of The Very Privileges Of Reason, Being Confined To The Human Species.

Is Not Every Meanest Day The Confluence Of Two Eternities?