To Travel Is To Live.

How Little Do The Wisest Among Us Know Of That Which Is So Important To Us All.

No, The Light Is Too Intense; We Do Not Yet Have Eyes That Can See All The Glory God Has Created. But Maybe Someday We Will Have Such Eyes. That Will Be The Most Wonderful Fairy Tale Of All, For We Ourselves Will Be Part Of It.

Every Time A Good Child Dies, An Angel Of God Comes Down To Earth. He Takes The Child In His Arms, Spreads Out His Great White Wings, And Flies With It All Over The Places The Child Loved On Earth. The Angel Plucks A Large Handful Of Flowers, And They Carry It With Them Up To God, Where The Flowers Bloom More Brightly Than They Ever Did On Earth.

When The Bird Of The Heart Begins To Sing, Too Often Will Reason Stop Up Her Ears.

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