Trifles Make The Sum Of Life.

I Will Die Here Where I Have Walked. And I Will Walk Here, Though I Am In My Grave. I Will Walk Here Until The Pride Of This House Is Humbled.

... Take Another Glass Of Wine, And Excuse My Mentioning That Society As A Body Does Not Expect One To Be So Strictly Conscientious In Emptying One's Glass, As To Turn It Bottom Upwards With The Rim On One's Nose.

Christmas Time! That Man Must Be A Misanthrope Indeed, In Whose Breast Something Like A Jovial Feeling Is Not Roused - In Whose Mind Some Pleasant Associations Are Not Awakened - By The Recurrence Of Christmas.

Blackened Skeleton Arms Of Wood By The Wayside Pointed Upward To The Convent, As If The Ghosts Of Former Travellers, Overwhelmed By The Snow, Haunted The Scene Of Their Distress. Icicle-hung Caves And Cellars Built For Refuges From Sudden Storms, Were Like So Many Whispers Of The Perils Of The Place; Never-resting Wreaths And Mazes Of Mist Wandered About, Hunted By A Moaning Wind; And Snow, The Besetting Danger Of The Mountain, Against Which All Its Defences Were Taken, Drifted Sharply Down.

Try To Do Unto Others As You Would Have Them Do To You, And Do Not Be Discouraged If They Fail Sometimes. It Is Much Better That They Should Fail Than You Should.