I Know The Lands Are Lit, With

Nothing Can Be So Bad As To Be Displeased With One's Self.

No Days Such Honored Days As These! While Yet Fair Aphrodite Reigned, Men Seeking Wide For Some Fair Thing Which Should Forever Bide On Earth, Her Beauteous Memory To Set In Fitting Frame That No Age Could Forget, Her Name In Lovely April's Name Did Hide, And Leave It There, Eternally Allied To All The Fairest Flowers Spring Did Beget.

Bee To The Blossom, Moth To The Flame; Each To His Passion; What's In A Name?

Next Time!' In What Calendar Are Kept The Records Of Those Next Times Which Never Come?

If I Could Write A Story That Would Do For The Indian One-hundredth Part What 'uncle Tom's Cabin' Did For The Negro, I Would Be Thankful The Rest Of My Life.