Thiar Ain't No Sense In Gittin' Riled!

For The Glory Born Of Goodness Never Dies, And Its Flag Is Not Half-masted In The Skies.

The Delicate Thought, That Cannot Find Expression, For Ruder Speech Too Fair, That, Like Thy Petals, Trembles In Possession, And Scatters On The Air.

The Dominant Expression Of A Child Is Gravity.

But Still When The Mists Of Doubt Prevail, And We Lie Becalmed By The Shores Of Age, We Hear From The Misty Troubled Shore The Voce Of Children Gone Before. Drawing The Soul To Its Anchorage.

It Would Seem Evident, Therefore, That The Secret Of The American Short Story Was The Treatment Of Characteristic American Life, With Absolute Knowledge Of Its Peculiarities And Sympathy With Its Method.