Habit Is Our Idea Of Eternity.

How Beautiful, Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning! The First Sunshine On The Leaves: The First Wind, Laden With The First Breath Of The Flowers—that Deep Sigh With Which They Seem To Waken From Sleep; The First Dew, Untouched Even By The Light Foot Of The Early Hare; The First Chirping Of The Rousing Birds, As If Eager To Begin Song And Flight; All Is Redolent Of The Strength Given By Rest, And The Joy Of Conscious Life.

Affection Exaggerates Its Own Offenses.

Anybody's Applause Is Better Than Nobody's.

Suicide And Antipathy To Fires In A Bedroom Seem To Be Among The National Characteristics. Perhaps The Same Moral Cause May Originate Both.

Nothing But Love Can Answer To Love; No Affection, No Kindness, No Care, Can Supply Its Place: It Is Its Own Sweet Want.