The Shadows Of Our Own Desires Stand

Christmas Is A Poor Excuse Every 25th Of December To Pick A Man's Pockets.

And, Unlike The Celebrated Herd In The Poem, They Were Not Forty Children Conducting Themselves As One, But Every Child Was Conducting Itself Like Forty.

Mr. Cruncher... Always Spoke Of The Year Of Our Lord As Anna Dominoes: Apparently Under The Impression That The Christian Era Dated From The Invention Of A Popular Game, By A Lady Who Had Bestowed Her Name Upon It.

I Think It Impossible, Utterly Impossible, For Any Englishman To Live Here [in America], And Be Happy.

Blackened Skeleton Arms Of Wood By The Wayside Pointed Upward To The Convent, As If The Ghosts Of Former Travellers, Overwhelmed By The Snow, Haunted The Scene Of Their Distress. Icicle-hung Caves And Cellars Built For Refuges From Sudden Storms, Were Like So Many Whispers Of The Perils Of The Place; Never-resting Wreaths And Mazes Of Mist Wandered About, Hunted By A Moaning Wind; And Snow, The Besetting Danger Of The Mountain, Against Which All Its Defences Were Taken, Drifted Sharply Down.