First Problem. To Produce Wealth. Second Problem.

Large, Heavy, Ragged Black Clouds Hung Like Crape Hammocks Beneath The Starry Cope Of The Night. You Would Have Said That They Were The Cobwebs Of The Firmament.

Forty Is The Old Age Of Youth; Fifty The Youth Of Old Age.

Life Is The Flower For Which Love Is The Honey.

In Saying No To Progress, It Is Not The Future Which They Condemn, But Themselves. They Give Themselves A Melancholy Disease; They Inoculate Themselves With The Past. There Is But One Way Of Refusing Tomorrow, That Is To Die.

It Is Nothing To Die. It Is Frightful Not To Live.