His Heart Kep' Goin' Pity-pat, But Hern

Attention Is The Stuff That Memory Is Made Of, And Memory Is Accumulated Genius.

Nature, They Say, Doth Dote, And Cannot Make A Man Save On Some Worn-out Plan Repeating Us By Rote: For Him Her Old World Moulds Aside She Threw And, Choosing Sweet Clay From The Breast Of The Unexhausted West, With Stuff Untainted Shaped A Hero New.

What Men Prize Most Is A Privilege, Even If It Be That Of Chief Mourner At A Funeral.

Humbleness Is Always Grace; Always Dignity

From Lower To The Higher Next, Not To The Top, Is Nature's Text; And Embryo Good, To Reach Full Stature, Absorbs The Evil In Its Nature.