Spring Is The Time Of Year When

It Was The Beginning Of A Day In June; The Deep Blue Sky Unsullied By A Cloud, And Teeming With Brilliant Light. The Streets Were, As Yet, Nearly Free From Passengers, The Houses And Shops Were Closed, And The Healthy Air Of Morning Fell Like Breath From Angels, On The Sleeping Town.

There Are Strings In The Human Heart That Had Better Not Be Vibrated.

Thus, It Comes To Pass, That A Certain Room In A Certain Old Hall, Where A Certain Bad Lord, Baronet, Knight, Or Gentleman, Shot Himself, Has Certain Planks In The Floor From Which The Blood Will Not Be Taken Out. You May Scrape And Scrape, As The Present Owner Has Done, Or Plane And Plane, As His Father Did, Or Scrub And Scrub, As His Grandfather Did, Or Burn And Burn With Strong Acids, As His Great-grandfather Did, But, There The Blood Will Still Be - No Redder And No Paler - No More And No Less - Always Just The Same.

May Not The Complaint, That Common People Are Above Their Station, Often Take Its Rise In The Fact Of Uncommon People Being Below Theirs?

Have You Ever Had The Sensation Of Looking At Someone For The First Time And Ever So Quickly The Past And Future Seem To Fuse ? Does That Not Mean Something ? That We Felt So Much, So Deeply, Before Even Speaking?