If Life Be A War,

In Sunshine, In Prosperity, The Flowers Are Very Well; But How Many Wet Days Are There In Life—november Seasons Of Disaster, When A Man's Hearth And Home Would Be Cold Indeed, Without The Clear, Cheering Gleam Of Intellect.

Feeling Without Judgement Is A Washy Draught Indeed; But Judgement Untempered By Feeling Is Too Bitter And Husky A Morsel For Human Deglutition.

The Eagerness Of A Listener Quickens The Tongue Of A Narrator.

Oh, I Am Not Going To Die, Am I? He Will Not Separate Us, We Have Been So Happy.

Of Late Years An Abundant Shower Of Curates Has Fallen Upon The North Of England.