There Is Nothing So Skillful In Its

Wounded Vanity Knows When It Is Mortally Hurt; And Limps Off The Field, Piteous, All Disguises Thrown Away. But Pride Carries Its Banner To The Last; And Fast As It Is Driven From One Field Unfurls It In Another, Never Admitting That There Is A Shade Less Honor In The Second Field Than In The First, Or In The Third Than In The Second.

One Of Dr. Johnson's Ingredients Of Happiness Was, "a Little Less Time Than You Want." That Means Always To Have So Many Things You Want To See, To Have, And To Do, That No Day Is Quite Long Enough For All You Think You Would Like To Get Done Before You Go To Bed.

If I Could Write A Story That Would Do For The Indian One-hundredth Part What 'uncle Tom's Cabin' Did For The Negro, I Would Be Thankful The Rest Of My Life.

Great Loves, To The Last, Have Pulses Red; All Great Loves That Have Ever Died Dropped Dead.

Still Lie The Sheltering Snows, Undimmed And White; And Reigns The Winter's Pregnant Silence Still; No Sign Of Spring, Save That The Catkins Fill, And Willow Stems Grow Daily Red And Bright. These Are Days When Ancients Held A Rite Of Expiation For The Old Year's Ill, And Prayer To Purify The New Year's Will.