Canst Thou Prophesy, Thou Little Tree, What

Whatever With The Past Has Gone, The Best Is Always Yet To Come.

A Tattered Copy Of Johnson's Large Dictionary Was A Great Delight To Me, On Account Of The Specimens Of English Versifications Which I Found In The Introduction. I Learned Them As If They Were So Many Poems. I Used To Keep This Old Volume Close To My Pillow; And I Amused Myself When I Awoke In The Morning By Reciting Its Jingling Contrasts Of Iambic And Trochaic And Dactylic Metre, And Thinking What A Charming Occupation It Must Be To "make Up" Verses.

The Curse Of Covetousness Is That It Destroys Manhood By Substituting Money For Character.

If An Apple Blossom Or A Ripe Apple Could Tell Its Own Story, It Would Be, Still More Than Its Own, The Story Of The Sunshine That Smiled Upon It, Of The Winds That Whispered To It, Of The Birds That Sang Around It, Of The Storms That Visited It, And Of The Motherly Tree That Held It And Fed It Until Its Petals Were Unfolded And Its Form Developed.

My 'must-have' Was Poetry. From The First, Life Meant That To Me. And, Fortunately, Poetry Is Not Purchasable Material, But An Atmosphere In Which Every Life May Expand. I Found It Everywhere About Me.