Hurt, He'll Never Be Hurt--he's

Blessed Is The Influence Of One True, Loving Human Soul On Another.

Iteration, Like Friction, Is Likely To Generate Heat Instead Of Progress.

So Much Of Our Early Gladness Vanishes Utterly From Our Memory: We Can Never Recall The Joy With Which We Laid Our Heads On Our Mother's Bosom Or Rode On Our Father's Back In Childhood; Doubtless That Joy Is Wrought Up Into Our Nature, As The Sunlight Of Long-past Mornings Is Wrought Up In The Soft Mellowness Of The Apricot; But It Is Gone Forever From Our Imagination, And We Can Only Believe In The Joy Of Childhood.

That Is The Bitterest Of All,--to Wear The Yoke Of Our Own Wrong-doing.

Fine Art, Poetry, That Kind Of Thing, Elevates A Nation.