Books Are Not Men And Yet They

The Continuance And Frequent Fits Of Anger Produce In The Soul A Propensity To Be Angry; Which Oftentimes Ends In Choler, Bitterness, And Moronity, When The Mid Becomes Ulcerated, Peevish, And Querulous, And Is Wounded By The Least Occurrence.

Socially We Are Woven Into The Fabric Of Society, Where Every Man Is Like One Thread In A Piece Of Cloth. No Single Thread Has A Right To Say, "i Will Stay Here No Longer," And Draw Out. No Man Has A Right To Make A Hole In The Well-woven Fabric Of Society.

We Not Only Live Among Men, But There Are Airy Hosts, Blessed Spectators, Sympathetic Lookers-on, That See And Know And Appreciate Our Thoughts And Feelings And Acts.

There Is A Temperate Zone In The Mind, Between Luxurious Indolence And Exacting Work; And It Is To This Region, Just Between Laziness And Labor, That Summer Reading Belongs.

Books Are Not Made For Furniture, But There Is Nothing Else That So Beautifully Furnishes A House.