Mercy More Becomes A Magistrate Than The

Fortune Comes Well To All That Comes Not Late.

The Twilight Is Sad And Cloudy, The Wind Blows Wild And Free, And Like The Wings Of Sea-birds Flash The White Caps Of The Sea.

The Motives And Purposes Of Authors Are Not Always So Pure And High, As, In The Enthusiasm Of Youth, We Sometimes Imagine. To Many The Trumpet Of Fame Is Nothing But A Tin Horn To Call Them Home, Like Laborers From, The Field, At Dinner-time, And They Think Themselves Lucky To Get The Dinner.

Only A Look And A Voice; Then Darkness Again And Silence.

A Single Conversation Across The Table With A Wise Man Is Better Than Ten Years Mere Study Of Books.