I Tired Of The Routine Of Eight

Is There Not A Terrible Hollowness, Mockery, Want, Craving, In That Existence Which Is Given Away To Others, For Want Of Something Of Your Own To Bestow It On?

A Christmas Frost Had Come At Midsummer; A White December Storm Had Whirled Over June; Ice Glazed The Ripe Apples, Drifts Crushed The Blowing Roses; On Hayfield And Cornfield Lay A Frozen Shroud: Lanes Which Last Night Blushed Full Of Flowers, To-day Were Pathless With Untrodden Snow; And The Woods, Which Twelve Hours Since Waved Leafy And Flagrant As Groves Between The Tropics, Now Spread, Waste, Wild, And White As Pine-forests In Wintry Norway.

As Much Good-will May Be Conveyed In One Hearty Word As In Many.

I Tired Of The Routine Of Eight Years In One Afternoon.

Friendship However Is A Plant Which Cannot Be Forced -- True Friendship Is No Gourd Spring Up In A Night And Withering In A Day.