The World's Great Men Have Not Commonly

Language Is The Blood Of The Soul Into Which Thoughts Run And Out Of Which They Grow.

Me Wretched! Let Me Curr To Quercine Shades! Effund Your Albid Hausts, Lactiferous Maids! O, Might I Vole To Some Umbrageous Clump,-- Depart,--be Off,--excede,--evade,--erump!

The Indian Is But A Sketch In Red Crayon Of A Rudimental Manhood. To The Problem Of His Relation To The White Race, There Is One Solution: Extermination.

A Few Can Touch The Magic String, And Noisy Fame Is Proud To Win Them: Alas For Those That Never Sing, But Die With All Their Music In Them!

The Real Religion Of The World Comes From Women Much More Than From Men - From Mothers Most Of All, Who Carry The Key Of Our Souls In Their Bosoms.