Some Folk Want Their Luck Buttered.

Once Let A Maiden Admit The Possibility Of Her Being Stricken With Love For Some One At A Certain Hour And Place, And The Thing Is As Good As Done.

A Novel Is An Impression, Not An Argument; And There The Matter Must Rest.

To Dwellers In A Wood, Almost Every Species Of Tree Has Its Voice As Well As Its Feature.

George's Son Had Done His Work So Thoroughly That He Was Considered Too Good A Workman To Live, And Was, In Fact, Taken And Tragically Shot At Twelve O'clock That Same Day—another Instance Of The Untoward Fate Which So Often Attends Dogs And Other Philosophers Who Follow Out A Train Of Reasoning To Its Logical Conclusion, And Attempt Perfectly Consistent Conduct In A World Made Up So Largely Of Compromise.

Many Of Her Thoughts Were Perfect Syllogisms; Unluckily They Always Remained Thoughts. Only A Few Were Irrational Assumptions; But, Unfortunately, They Were The Ones Which Most Frequently Grew Into Deeds