Since All The Maids Are Good And

We Grow Gray In Our Spirit Long Before We Grow Gray In Our Hair.

I Hate A Man Who Swallows [his Food], Affecting Not To Know What He Is Eating. I Suspect His Taste In Higher Matters.

Not Childhood Alone, But The Young Man Till Thirty, Never Feels Practically That He Is Mortal.

Thus, When The Lamp That Lighted The Traveller At First Goes Out, He Feels Awhile Benighted, And Looks Around In Fear And Doubt. But Soon, The Prospect Clearing, By Cloudless Starlight On He Treads, And Thinks No Lamp So Cheering As That Light Which Heaven Sheds.

For Thy Sake, Tobacco, I Would Do Anything But Die.