It Takes A Man To Make A

In This World, Full Often, Our Joys Are Only The Tender Shadows Which Our Sorrows Cast.

Mirth Is The Sweet Wine Of Human Life. It Should Be Offered Sparkling With Zestful Life Unto God.

The Slave Labors, But With No Cheer - It Is Not The Road To Respectability, It Will Honor Him With No Citizens' Trust, It Brings No Bread To His Family, No Grain To His Garner, No Leisure In After-days, No Books Or Papers To His Children. It Opens No School-house Door, Builds No Church, Rears For Him No Factory, Lays No Keel, Fills No Bank, Earns No Acres. With Sweat And Toil And Ignorance He Consumes His Life, To Pour The Earnings Into Channels From Which He Does No Drink, Into Hands That Never Honor Him. But Perpetually Rob And Often Torment.

I Think Half The Troubles For Which Men Go Slouching In Prayer To God Are Caused By Their Intolerable Pride. Many Of Our Cares Are But A Morbid Way Of Looking At Our Privileges. We Let Our Blessings Get Mouldy, And Then Call Them Curses.

Some People Think Black Is The Color Of Heaven, And That The More They Can Make Their Faces Look Like Midnight, The More Evidence They Have Of Grace. But God, Who Made The Sun And The Flowers, Never Sent Me To Proclaim To You Such A Lie As That.