And So We Plough Along, As The

Man Is Always More Than He Can Know Of Himself; Consequently, His Accomplishments, Time And Again, Will Come As A Surprise To Him.

O Little Feet! That Such Long Years Must Wander On Through Hopes And Fears, Must Ache And Bleed Beneath Your Load; I, Nearer To The Wayside Inn Where Toil Shall Cease And Rest Begin, Am Weary, Thinking Of Your Road!

Art Is The Child Of Nature; Yes, Her Darling Child, In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mother's Face, Her Aspect And Her Attitude, All Her Majestic Loveliness Chastened And Softened And Subdued Into A More Attractive Grace, And With A Human Sense Imbued. He Is The Greatest Artist, Then, Whether Of Pencil Or Of Pen, Who Follows Nature.

The Lowest Ebb Is The Turn Of The Tide.

.... Anon From The Castle Walls The Crescent Banner Falls, And The Crowd Beholds Instead, Like A Portent In The Sky, Iskander's Banner Fly, The Black Eagle With Double Head. And Shouts Ascend On High .....'' Long Live Scanderbeg.