Do Not Mourn The Dead With The

I Should Rather Labor As Another's Serf, In The Home Of A Man Without Fortune, One Whose Livelihood Was Meager, Than Rule Over All The Departed Dead.

Men In Their Generations Are Like The Leaves Of The Trees. The Wind Blows And One Year's Leaves Are Scattered On The Ground; But The Trees Burst Into Bud And Put On Fresh Ones When The Spring Comes Round.

Of Men Who Have A Sense Of Honor, More Come Through Alive Than Are Slain, But From Those Who Flee Comes Neither Glory Nor Any Help.

Without Question It May Be Said Of Vancouver That Her Position, Geographically, Is Imperial To A Degree, That Her Possibilities Are Enormous, And That With But A Feeble Stretch Of The Imagination Those Possibilities Might Wisely Be Deemed Certainties.

I'm Not A Bath Man Myself. More Of A Cologne Man.