Too Young For Woe, Though Not For

There Is A Sacredness In Tears. They Are Not The Mark Of Weakness, But Of Power.

Man Passes Away; His Name Perishes From Record And Recollection; His History Is As A Tale That Is Told, And His Very Monument Becomes A Ruin.

I Have Never Found, In Anything Outside Of The Four Walls Of My Study, An Enjoyment Equal To Sitting At My Writing Desk With A Clean Page, A New Theme, And A Mind Awake.

Christmas Is A Season For Kindling The Fire For Hospitality In The Hall, The Genial Flame Of Charity In The Heart.

The Love Of A Mother Is Never Exhausted. It Never Changes - It Never Tires - It Endures Through All; In Good Repute, In Bad Repute. In The Face Of The World's Condemnation, A Mother's Love Still Lives On.