Time Is But The Shadow Of The

You Can Always Tell The Old River Hand By The Way In Which He Stretches Himself Out Upon The Cushions At The Bottom Of The Boat, And Encourages The Rowers By Telling Them Anecdotes About The Marvellous Feats He Performed Last Season.

He Is Very Imprudent, A Dog; He Never Makes It His Business To Inquire Whether You Are In The Right Or The Wrong, Never Asks Whether You Are Rich Or Poor, Silly Or Wise, Sinner Or Saint. You Are His Pal. That Is Enough For Him.

I Did Not Intend To Write A Funny Book, At First. I Did Not Know I Was A Humorist. I Have Never Been Sure About It. In The Middle Ages, I Should Probably Have Gone About Preaching And Got Myself Burnt Or Hanged.

We Are So Bound Together That No Man Can Labor For Himself Alone. Each Blow He Strikes In His Own Behalf Helps To Mold The Universe.

That The Boat Did Not Upset I Simply State As A Fact. Why It Did Not Upset I Am Unable To Offer Any Reason. I Have Often Thought About The Matter Since, But I Have Never Succeeded In Arriving At Any Satisfactory Explanation Of The Phenomenon. Possibly The Result May Have Been Brought About By The Natural Obstinacy Of All Things In This World. The Boat May Possibly Have Come To The Conclusion, Judging From A Cursory View Of Our Behaviour, That We Had Come Out For A Morning's Suicide, And Had Thereupon Determined To Disappoint Us. That Is The Only Suggestion I Can Offer.