Fate Loves The Fearless.

The Nunneries Of Silent Nooks, The Murmured Longing Of The Wood.

A Friendship Counting Nearly Forty Years Is The Finest Kind Of Shade-tree I Know.

God Is Not Dumb, That He Should Speak No More; If Thou Hast Wanderings In The Wilderness And Find'st Not Sinai, 'tis Thy Soul Is Poor.

No Price Is Set On The Lavish Summer; June May Be Had By The Poorest Comer.

Against The Windows The Storm Comes Dashing, Through Tattered Foliage The Hail Tears Crashing, The Blue Lightning Flashes, The Rapid Hail Clashes... The Thunder Is Rumbling And Crashing And Crumbling.