All Human Joys Are Swift Of Wing,

Here We Have A Baby. It Is Composed Of A Bald Head And A Pair Of Lungs.

No Book Can Be Appreciated Until It Has Been Slept With And Dreamed Over.

Mr. Clarke Played The King All Evening As Though Under Constant Fear That Someone Else Was About To Play The Ace.

What Smells So? Has Somebody Been Burning A Rag, Or Is There A Dead Mule In The Back Yard? No, The Man Is Smoking A Five-cent Cigar.

Not So, However, With Books, For Books Cannot Change. A Thousand Years Hence They Are What You Find Them To-day, Speaking The Same Words, Holding Forth The Same Cheer, The Same Promise, The Same Comfort; Always Constant, Laughing With Those Who Laugh And Weeping With Those Who Weep.