Scattered Wits Take A Long Time In

To Be Shelterless And Alone In The Open Country, Hearing The Wind Moan And Watching For Day Through The Whole Long Weary Night; To Listen To The Falling Rain, And Crouch For Warmth Beneath The Lee Of Some Old Barn Or Rick, Or In The Hollow Of A Tree; Are Dismal Things - But Not So Dismal As The Wandering Up And Down Where Shelter Is, And Beds And Sleepers Are By Thousands; A Houseless Rejected Creature.

The Appearance Presented By The Streets Of London An Hour Before Sunrise, On A Summer's Morning, Is Most Striking Even To The Few Whose Unfortunate Pursuits Of Pleasure, Or Scarcely Less Unfortunate Pursuits Of Business, Cause Them To Be Well Acquainted With The Scene. There Is An Air Of Cold, Solitary Desolation About The Noiseless Streets Which We Are Accustomed To See Thronged At Other Times By A Busy, Eager Crowd, And Over The Quiet, Closely-shut Buildings, Which Throughout The Day Are Swarming With Life And Bustle, That Is Very Impressive.

As I Said Just Now, The World Has Gone Past Me. I Don't Blame It; But I No Longer Understand It. Tradesmen Are Not The Same As They Used To Be, Apprentices Are Not The Same, Business Is Not The Same, Business Commodities Are Not The Same. Seven-eighths Of My Stock Is Old-fashioned. I Am An Old-fashioned Man In An Old-fashioned Shop, In A Street That Is Not The Same As I Remember It. I Have Fallen Behind The Time, And Am Too Old To Catch It Again.

Happiness Is A Gift And The Trick Is Not To Expect It, But To Delight In It When It Comes.

I Could Not Help Wondering In My Own Mind....how It Came To Pass That Our Joints Of Meat Were Of Such Extraordinary Shapes - And Whether Our Butcher Contracted For All The Deformed Sheep That Came Into The World; But I Kept My Reflections To Myself.