To Be Of Use To The World

The Naive Was Only A Part Of My Fairy Tales; Humour Was The Real Salt In Them.

‎"does All The Beauty Of The World Stop When You Die?" "no," Said The Old Oak; "it Will Last Much Longer - Longer Than I Can Even Think Of." "well, Then," Said The Little May-fly, "we Have The Same Time To Live; Only We Reckon Differently.

One Cannot Quite Trust The Word Of Potted Flowers," Thought The Butterfly; "they Have Too Much To Do With Men.

Every Town, Like Every Man, Has Its Own Countenance; They Have A Common Likeness And Yet Are Different; One Keeps In His Mind All Their Peculiar Touches.

Death Walks Faster Than The Wind And Never Returns What He Has Taken.