The One Thing Finished In This Hasty

No Mud Can Soil Us But The Mud We Throw.

The Mind Can Weave Itself Warmly In The Cocoon Of Its Own Thoughts, And Dwell A Hermit Anywhere.

No Price Is Set On The Lavish Summer; June May Be Had By The Poorest Comer.

No Man Is Born Into The World Whose Work Is Not Born With Him. There Is Always Work, And Tools To Work Withal, For Those Who Will; And Blessed Are The Horny Hands Of Toil.

In Vain We Call Old Notions Fudge, And Bend Our Conscience To Our Dealing; The Ten Commandments Will Not Budge, And Stealing Will Continue Stealing.