The Strong Are God's Natural Protectors Of

Nothing Marks The Change From The City To The Country So Much As The Absence Of Grinding Noises. The Country Is Never Silent. But Its Sounds Are Separate, Distinct, And As It Were, Articulate.

There Are Sorrows That Are Not Painful, But Are Of The Nature Of Some Acids, And Give Piquancy And Flavor To Life.

Laws And Institutions, Like Clocks, Must Occasionally Be Cleaned, Wound Up, And Set To True Time.

A Library Is But The Soul's Burial Ground; It Is The Land Of Shadows. Yet One Is Impressed With The Thought, The Labor, And The Struggle, Represented In This Vast Catacomb Of Books. Who Could Dream, By The Placid Waters That Issue From The Level Mouths Of Brooks Into The Lake, All The Plunges, The Whirls, The Divisions, And Foaming Rushes That Had Brought Them Down To The Tranquil Exit? And Who Can Guess Through What Channels Of Disturbance, And Experiences Of Sorrow, The Heart Passed That Has Emptied Into This Dead Sea Of Books?

It Is Not Work That Kills Men; It Is Worry. Worry Is Rust Upon The Blade.