My Hours Are Peaceful Centuries.

The April Winds Are Magical, And Thrill Our Tuneful Frames; The Garden-walks Are Passional To Bachelors And Dames.

Coal Is A Portable Climate.

The Death Of A Dear Friend, Wife, Brother, Lover, Which Seemed Nothing But Privation, Somewhat Later Assumes The Aspect Of A Guide Or Genius; For It Commonly Operates Revolutions In Our Way Of Life, Terminates An Epoch Of Infancy Or Of Youth Which Was Waiting To Be Closed, Breaks Up A Wonted Occupation, Or A Household, Or Style Of Living, And Allows The Formation Of New Ones More Friendly To The Growth Of Character.

We Cannot Let Our Angels Go; We Do Not See That They Only Go Out That Archangels May Come In.

Sitting Back In The Evening, Stargazing And Stroking Your Dog, Is An Infallible Remedy.