No Families Take So Little Medicine As

Love Is The Master Key That Opens The Gates Of Happiness.

As We Grow Older We Think More And More Of Old Persons And Of Old Things And Places. As To Old Persons, It Seems As If We Never Know How Much They Have To Tell Until We Are Old Ourselves And They Have Been Gone Twenty Or Thirty Years. Once In A While We Come Upon Some Survivor Of His Or Her Generation That We Have Overlooked, And Feel As If We Had Recovered One Of The Lost Books Of Livy Or Fished Up The Golden Candlestick From The Ooze Of The Tiber.

But Friendship Is The Breathing Rose, With Sweets In Every Fold.

Language Is The Blood Of The Soul Into Which Thoughts Run And Out Of Which They Grow.

A Few Can Touch The Magic String, And Noisy Fame Is Proud To Win Them: Alas For Those That Never Sing, But Die With All Their Music In Them!