We May Cover A Multitude Of Sins

A Man Who Cannot Get Angry Is Like A Stream That Cannot Overflow, That Is Always Turbid. Sometimes Indignation Is As Good As A Thunderstorm In Summer, Clearing And Cooling The Air.

A Library Is But The Soul's Burial Ground; It Is The Land Of Shadows. Yet One Is Impressed With The Thought, The Labor, And The Struggle, Represented In This Vast Catacomb Of Books. Who Could Dream, By The Placid Waters That Issue From The Level Mouths Of Brooks Into The Lake, All The Plunges, The Whirls, The Divisions, And Foaming Rushes That Had Brought Them Down To The Tranquil Exit? And Who Can Guess Through What Channels Of Disturbance, And Experiences Of Sorrow, The Heart Passed That Has Emptied Into This Dead Sea Of Books?

It Is A Higher Exhibition Of Christian Manliness To Be Able To Bear Trouble Than To Get Rid Of It.

Discover What You Are.

The Natural Term Of An Apple-pie Is But Twelve Hours. It Reaches Its Highest State About One Hour After It Comes From The Oven, And Just Before Its Natural Heat Has Quite Departed. But Every Hour Afterward Is A Declension. And After It Is One Day Old, It Is Thence-forward But The Ghastly Corpse Of Apple-pie.