It Is An Age Of Stir And

Matters Change And Morals Change; Men Remain.

The Talked-about Is Always The Last To Hear The Talk . . .

Love! Beyond Measure — Beyond Death — It Nearly Kills. But One Wouldn't Have Been Without It.

Love Is Not A Hot-house Flower, But A Wild Plant, Born Of A Wet Night, Born Of An Hour Of Sunshine; Sprung From Wild Seed, Blown Along The Road By A Wild Wind. A Wild Plant That, When It Blooms By Chance Within The Hedge Of Our Gardens, We Call A Flower; And When It Blooms Outside We Call A Weed; But, Flower Or Weed, Whose Scent And Colour Are Always, Wild!

By The Cigars They Smoke, And The Composers They Love, Ye Shall Know The Texture Of Men's Souls.