Habit Is A Second Nature, And What

The Past Is Perpetual Youth To The Heart.

I Hate The Word 'ought' - It Always Implies Something Dull, Cold, And Commonplace. The 'ought Nots' Of Life Are Its Pleasantest Things.

I Can Pass Days Stretch'd In The Shade Of Those Old Cedar Trees, Watching The Sunshine Like A Blessing Fall,-- The Breeze Like Music Wandering O'er The Boughs, Each Tree A Natural Harp,--each Different Leaf A Different Note, Blent In One Vast Thanksgiving.

If There Be Any One Habit Which More Than Another Is The Dry Rot Of All That Is High And Generous In Youth, It Is The Habit Of Ridicule.

Doubts, Like Facts, Are Stubborn Things.