In The Light Of Fuller Day, Of

Music Is A Sacred, A Divine, A God-like Thing, And Was Given To Man By Christ To Lift Our Hearts Up To God, And Make Us Feel Something Of The Glory And Beauty Of God, And Of All Which God Has Made.

You Are Literally Filled With The Fruit Of Your Own Devices, With Rats And Mice And Such Small Deer, Paramecia, And Entomostraceæ, And Kicking Things With Horrid Names, Which You See In Microscopes At The Polytechnic, And Rush Home And Call For Brandy-without The Water-stone, And Gravel, And Dyspepsia, And Fragments Of Your Own Muscular Tissue Tinged With Your Own Bile.

Truth, For Its Own Sake, Had Never Been A Virtue With The Roman Clergy.

[at The End Of The Story, Its Main Character, Tom] Is Now A Great Man Of Science, And Can Plan Railroads, And Steam-engines, And Electric Telegraphs, And Rifled Guns, And So Forth; And Knows Everything About Everything, Except Why A Hen's Egg Don't Turn Into A Crocodile, And Two Or Three Other Little Things That No One Will Know Till The Coming Of The Cocqcigrues.

Nothing Like One Honest Look, One Honest Thought Of Christ Upon His Cross. That Tells Us How Much He Has Been Through, How Much He Endured, How Much He Conquered, How Much God Loved Us, Who Spared Not His Only Begotten Son, But Freely Gave Him For Us. Dare We Doubt Such A God? Dare We Murmur Against Such A God?