Trifles Make Up The Happiness Or The

The World Is Not So Much In Need Of New Thoughts As That When Thought Grows Old And Worn With Usage It Should, Like Current Coin, Be Called In, And, From The Mint Of Genius, Reissued Fresh And New.

Style, After All, Rather Than Thought, Is The Immortal Thing In Literature.

Nature Never Quite Goes Along With Us. She Is Somber At Weddings, Sunny At Funerals, And She Frowns On Ninety-nine Out Of A Hundred Picnics.

Stirling, Like A Huge Brooch, Clasps Highlands And Lowlands Together.

We Are Never Happy; We Can Only Remember That We Were So Once.