Time Is: Too Slow For Those Who

Long Ago Apollo Called To Aristæus, Youngest Of The Shepherds, Saying, "i Will Make You Keeper Of My Bees." Golden Were The Hives, And Golden Was The Honey; Golden, Too, The Music, Where The Honey-makers Hummed Among The Trees.

Memory Is A Capricious And Arbitrary Creature. You Never Can Tell What Pebble She Will Pick Up From The Shore Of Life To Keep Among Her Treasures, Or What Inconspicuous Flower Of The Field She Will Preserve As The Symbol Of "thoughts That Do Often Lie Too Deep For Tears." . . . And Yet I Do Not Doubt That The Most Important Things Are Always The Best Remembered.

If All The Skies Were Sunshine Our Faces Would Be Fain To Feel Once More Upon Them The Cooling Splash Of Rain. If All The World Were Music, Our Hearts Would Often Long For One Sweet Strain Of Silence, To Break The Endless Song If Life Were Always Merry, Our Souls Would Seek Relief, And Rest From Weary Laughter In The Quiet Arms Of Grief.

Every Country-or At Least Every Country That Is Fit For Habitation-has Its Own Rivers; And Every River Has Its Own Quality; And It Is The Part Of Wisdom To Know And Love As Many As You Can, Seeing Each In The Fairest Possible Light, And Receiving From Each The Best That It Has To Give.

What Do I Owe My Father? Everything!