There Are More Ways Of Killing A

These Glorious Things-words-are Man's Right Alone...without Words We Should Know No More Of Each Other's Hearts And Thoughts Than The Dog Knows Of His Fellow Dog....for, If You Will Consider, You Always Think To Yourself In Words, Though You Do Not Speak Them Aloud; And Without Them All Our Thoughts Would Be Mere Blind Longings, Feelings Which We Could Not Understand Ourselves.

[a]ll The Ingenious Men, And All The Scientific Men, And All The Fanciful Men, In The World,... Could Never Invent, If All Their Wits Were Boiled Into One, Anything So Curious And So Ridiculous As A Lobster.

All Who Have Travelled Through The Delicious Scenery Of North Devon Must Needs Know The Little White Town Of Bideford, Which Slopes Upwards From Its Broad Tide-river Paved With Yellow Sands, And Many-arched Old Bridge, Where Salmon Wait For Autumn Floods, Toward The Pleasant Upland On The West.

Oh! That We Two Were Maying Down The Stream Of The Soft Spring Breeze; Like Children With Violets Playing, In The Shade Of The Whispering Trees.

Nothing Like One Honest Look, One Honest Thought Of Christ Upon His Cross. That Tells Us How Much He Has Been Through, How Much He Endured, How Much He Conquered, How Much God Loved Us, Who Spared Not His Only Begotten Son, But Freely Gave Him For Us. Dare We Doubt Such A God? Dare We Murmur Against Such A God?