Despair Snuffs The Sun From The Firmament.

A Work Of Real Merit Finds Favor At Last.

Who Loves A Garden Still His Eden Keeps.

The History Of Books Shows The Humblest Origin Of Some Of The Most Valued, Wrought As These Were Out Of Obscure Materials By Persons Whose Names Thereafter Became Illustrious. The Thumbed Volumes, Now So Precious To Thousands, Were Compiled From Personal Experiences And Owe Their Interest To Touches Of Inspiration Of Which The Writer Was Less Author Than Amanuensis, Himself The Voiced Word Of Life For All Times.

Ourselves Are Cosmic And Capacious Beyond Conjecture, And To Experience Some Notion Of The Planetary Perspective Is The Richest Income From Travelling. It Takes All To Inform And Educate All. Sallies Forth From Our Cramped Firesides Into Other Homes, Other Hearts, Are Wonderfully Wholesome And Enlarging. Travel Opens Prospects On All Sides, Widens Our Horizon, Liberates The Mind From Geographical And Conventional Limitations, From Local Prejudices And National, Showing The Globe In Its Differing Climates, Zones, And Latitudes Of Intelligence.

Nor Is A Day Lived If The Dawn Is Left Out Of It, With The Prospects It Opens. Who Speaks Charmingly Of Nature Or Of Mankind, Like Him Who Comes Bibulous Of Sunrise And The Fountains Of Waters?