A People Are Free In Proportion As

Novels Are To Love As Fairy Tales To Dreams.

The One Red Leaf, The Last Of Its Clan, That Dances As Often As Dance It Can, Hanging So Light, And Hanging So High, On The Topmost Twig That Looks Up At The Sky.

God! Sing, Ye Meadow-streams, With Gladsome Voice! Ye Pine-groves, With Your Soft And Soul-like Sounds! And They Too Have A Voice, You Piles Of Snow, And In Their Perilous Fall Shall Thunder, God!

Water Cannot Rise Higher Than Its Source, Neither Can Human Reason.

He Prayeth Best, Who Loveth Best All Things Both Great And Small; For The Dear God Who Loveth Us, He Made And Loveth All.